I was a little late coming to the Internet. It wasn’t till around 2000 that I met my first online friend, Steve Paget. I spent a lot of time alone back then, and—as you do—I would see things and “take a mental note” to later share them with my friends. The next day, I might tell my offline friends that, “Dude, last night I saw some baby ducks,” after which I might have five seconds of attention to transition this into something more dramatic.
But communicating with Steve was different. Steve and I only knew each other through writing. I didn’t have to gain and maintain conversational momentum. With Steve, I wasn’t stuck with “Dude, last night I saw some baby ducks.” I could instead start off with something like, “Ever since I was a child, I’ve enjoyed the coming of Spring, and with it … blah blah.”
Not only that, but I could then cross out “Ever since I was a child … blah blah” and replace it with
“I am ever impressed by the scope and diversity of … blah blah“
“I was reflecting on the meaning and complexity of …“
“You never know what you’ll find when you’re looking for …“
“With each passing year …“
“I was alone in the park after curfew when …“
“A clear and moonless sky …“
“If there’s one thing I know about ducks, it’s …“
“I’m not sure I would have bothered coming back at all if not for …“
“What a shame. Some people just can’t appreciate the simple beauty of …“
“I sure do love a mystery …“
“As a lifetime student of …“
“Do you know what goes great with plumb sauce? …“
… all before ultimately crossing out the last and settling for “Dude, last night I saw some baby ducks … blah blah.”
This was a lot easier than offline life, because conversation—and reputation!—were no longer about what I’d done, but what I’d felt. And, as anyone who’s tried both will know, feeling is a lot easier than doing.
In truth, it was even easier than that, because I didn’t really have to feel it: I just had to sell it.
To my credit (?), I usually crossed out the flourishes, but I did think about them. And as time went on, I thought about them too much. I began to forgot how to appreciate baby ducks—or anything else. Each notable thing I saw was auditioned as a metaphor for some lesson, proposition, or premise I might proffer to my online friends. There was a constant monologue in my head, pitching and pitching and pitching everything in sight as some gambit of persuasion or self aggrandizement.
Fortunately, I was pitching it to Steve.
Steve and I were around the same age, both married, both working class. And though I had a reasonable online audience, Steve was the one who came to mind when I was rehearsing my online voice. And Steve wasn’t having any of it. Both Steve and I came from a place and time where humility wasn’t just a virtue, it was an asset. This was when your whole life was a few hundred people, and they’d only bring you along as far as they could trust you. Unless you were a vagabond or a rock star, it was miserable to be a fraud.
I’ve never been a rock star, but I have been a vagabond. I’ve had an opportunity to see my most absurd, most extroverted self. And I know that having a mirror online in Steve helped me see where I was headed and change course.
Steve died several years ago. I know when, but I don’t know how. It didn’t seem right to ask when I heard the news from his real-life friends. I spent ten years typing back and forth with Steve, but I never did get a chance to literally speak with him. I have a hard time even imagining the Welsh accent he must have had living in Colwyn Bay, North Wales.
But sometimes I still catch myself “talking” to Steve. He’s still an accent-less voice in my head, reminding me that I don’t have to tell the living about every baby duck I see.
