Small Talk Is Hitler
We’re in a hotel lobby at the counter, staring holes into the air. The girl is Irina, buxom. The guy is Erik, important. I’m Marcel and want to go home. But that’s impossible. Business appointments are essential. Instead of telling Irina that tonight around nine I’d like to take her anally in her single room, and stapling my bank details to Erik’s forehead so he can wire me his inheritance, we must perform society’s dance of dances. I hate small talk. I hate the your-life-is-irrelevant-to-me, nice-weather smile with dull looks trained to keep us from yawning and pouncing. I hate most people. So why this? Dogs sniff rears, humans edge closer through gab. Less fun. Imagine the hours we’d save by going straight to the point.
Rudimentary chatter is a sliver of German jabber. Exchanging information matters, your aunt’s cute dog does not. Screaming at someone because he dropped my ice cream matters, Love Island does not. If I drunkenly drop before a girl to say I love her and that she has the most beautiful knee hollows, that matters. Tweets don’t. Still, I’m a maestro of double standards. I’d elbow to the summit, yet I can’t stand people who try it on me. If you want something, know my favorite color, wax about Munich in summer, and say what I’m thinking as I think it. This rule’s weight falls with my counterpart’s chest size and the hours on my cheap Swatch.
Small talk is Hitler when I must endure it, yet a damned law if anyone else dares skip it. Don’t play instant buddy without bracing for a counterpunch. Stand in front of me, shake my hand, tell me who you are. And give me money. Lots of money. Then we can go on. While scrawny Erik drones about his plans for some idiotic web project and Irina’s lips seem to melt, I try to tell the bartender telepathically to bring a sharp knife, pull the fire alarm, or recite filthy jokes in operatic form. None of that happens. I’m handed a glass of champagne. I nod, clink with both, and laugh insincerely at a more-than-lousy pun. God, I’m fake.