Anti-Social Networking
I search desperately for an un-send button. Oh no, oh no, oh no. What have I done? Damn you, Facebook! I didn’t mean it! I take it back! Maybe if I de-friend her…no, she’d still get the message. That would just make things worse. Shit, shit, shit. Well, now I’ll probably be expelled. Or at least have to go see the Dean and claim that my Colombian roommate wrote it.
“Oh man I can’t believe you actually sent it!” Dan shouts, in horror and glee.
I lean back in my crumbling wheelie chair and smile wryly. Well, what’s done is done, I guess. “That’ll be twenty-five dollars,” I say, extending my palm expectantly. I am sure I have just committed my most grievous mistake of at least this week. Collecting my hard-earned reward, I retrace my errant steps.
***
It started when I saw her going into our college dining hall late one Thursday night. She was wearing a revealing brown sleeveless shirt and adjusting herself as she walked in. I was immediately enchanted.
“Who is that girl?” I asked Jason, nonchalantly.
“What? I dunno. Who cares? Let’s go watch TV.”
“Wait. I forgot. I need to buy umm…something.” I handed him my Cheese Fix Munchies and marched back in her direction.
She was buying FroYo. Oh man, that’s so hot. I hovered near the FroYo machine and pretended to inspect fruit, which I hate and never buy. Okay. Go time.
“Hi, I couldn’t help but notice you are astoundingly good looking, and probably a little drunk. We should get coffee, and then maybe make out,” I said in my head.
Brown Shirt went to buy her FroYo. Now! It’s now or never!
I bought an apple.
“Let’s go watch Myth Busters,” I said to Jason, who was tapping his foot by the exit.
“Why did you buy an apple?”
Two weeks later, I was back in the dining hall accompanied by my roommate and occasional nemesis, Colombian Jon. I had not forgotten about Brown Shirt Girl, but it had been what felt like ages since my initial sighting and I was losing hope. Maybe she lives off campus. Maybe she doesn’t even go here. Maybe she’s dead. A dizzying number of equally terrible explanations ran through my head. A buzz in my pocket disturbed my ruminations.
I opened my cell phone. Ellipsis, the text message read. This particular code was borrowed from the magnificent Casino Royale, the latest James Bond film. After my roommates and I saw it, we all immediately began arguing about who most closely resembled Daniel Craig. Consequently, I rushed out to get a fifteen dollar version of his haircut. The text indicated that Dan had seen one of four code-worthy girls somewhere on campus. It took some arguing to get Brown Shirt Girl on this exclusive list, as I had to circumvent the usual process of deliberation, voting, and Facebook bikini pictures. I was tempted to ignore it, but I had already been chastised several times for this. He argued it made him feel creepy if I didn’t respond immediately with something congratulatory. Nice! I texted back, way to go!
And then I saw her. I could have sworn she was lit by a halo. However, maybe that had more to do with the fact that I just finished playing the video game Halo for eight hours straight. She was accompanied by someone I knew, and more importantly, was Facebook friends with. Her friend was just as gorgeous, because these girls stick together like packs of ducklings. I fired off a quick coded text to Dan.
What a stroke of luck! I did a mental jig of glee, but outwardly continued to stare motionlessly at her chest. I toyed with the idea of actually talking to Brown Shirt Girl, but quickly disregarded it in favor of rushing out to stalk her on Facebook.
Using my requisite college-social-networking detective skills, I quickly navigated to her friend’s profile page. Here was the brilliant part. I looked through her photos until I found Brown Shirt Girl. I paused to compare myself favorably with Sherlock Holmes. I didn’t send a friend request, of course, but I did rush triumphantly into the common room to inform my roommates I had discovered her name. Jason did not look up from watching Myth Busters. Dan was appropriately impressed; we high-fived.
The next day I accidentally left myself logged on—not that it matters because everyone in the world knows my password is Goldfinger—and my traitorous Latin American roommate sent her a friend request. This was an act of vengeance, because Jason and I frequently go into the bedroom I share with Colombian Jon when he is in class and try to head my soccer ball back and forth over his desk. We inevitably knock over his pens or spill his coffee or hit his laptop. We finally pushed him over the edge yesterday when he got home and accused me of playing “that fucking game with the ball” again. I vehemently denied it, and acted hurt.
“I know you did it!” he shouted at me, “my calculator was on the floor. My pens were everywhere. You didn’t even try to clean up afterward!”
“Okay, yes we did it,” I admitted, “it was Jason’s idea.” There was an awkward pause while he rearranged his desk to whatever it looked like before. “Besides,” I said, “shouldn’t you like soccer? You’re Colombian.”
“I’m from Connecticut, motherfucker!”
I should have known he would find a way to get back at me. He’s so spiteful. As if waking me up every night so he and his ugly friends can smoke hookah and spill coal on my bed wasn’t sufficient punishment.
I was furious with Colombian Jon, until Brown Shirt accepted the request, at which point I forgave him. Still, I brought my Resident Assistant Brian in to consult on damage control. He liked us because we were the only ones who went to the events he sponsored. We had nothing better to do.
“Send her a message asking her out,” Brian advised.
“No way. That’s creepy!”
“No, friending a girl you’ve never talked to is creepy,” he replied. Touché, Brian. He’s so smart. Damn you, Colombian Jon.
“I could even write it for you,” offered Brian. I think he had formed an opinion of my ability to interact with girls.
Brian is much more suave than I am. Once, when Dan and I were discussing a girl we particularly idolized, Brian informed us he had dated her for a couple of weeks. We were extremely impressed. High fives were exchanged. Jason was too busy to respond, staring at the pillow on which he’d printed a picture of his girlfriend’s face.
“My secret,” Brian advised us in a whisper, “is I have no fear.” Brian the Braveheart.
“Have no fear,” we repeated quietly, nodding in unison.
“Write the message,” I told him.
“Well that was a complete disaster,” I informed Dan a week later. Dan agreed. Brown Shirt Girl did not reply. Thanks for nothing, Brian. What a dick.
“I should send her a message asking her to be in a porno!” I laughed.
“I would give you twenty-five dollars if you actually did that,” laughed Dan. Then we both laughed for a while. We find each other hysterical.
I wondered what James Bond would do. “Have no fear,” I said to myself. I mustered up my bitterness and courage and wrote her the following message:
Hey, I’m making a movie for my film class this semester. It’s called Backdoor Sluts 9, and it’s very plot-oriented. I need a really committed cast and I thought you would make a great lead. Let me know!
-Sincerley, Gabe
***
I think the most embarrassing part, in retrospect, is that I misspelled “sincerely”. If I ever run for public office I will definitely be blackmailed. My friendly offer was even less well-received than the previous one. Brown Shirt Girl did not find it nearly as funny as Dan and I did. Fortunately, she didn’t send it to the Dean, either. She just sent me back a reply calling me a creep and an asshole, which are not the worst things I’ve been called this month. Also, I made twenty-five dollars, which is not something to scoff at when most of your meals consist solely of candy corn. Maybe someday I’ll find the courage to ask a girl to be in a porno in person. But for now, I’ve noticed Colombian Jon is not in the room, so there’s a certain soccer-ball-related game I need to play over his desk.
