Meatspace. Nikesh Shukla

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СКАЧАТЬ 402 people I am acquainted with. The numbers don’t add up. That’s a lot of interactions, a lot of posts, a lot of Mafia invitations. So sorry I missed your Ginsberg thing.’

      ‘Beckett,’ Mitch corrected me. ‘Wait. You have 234 close friends? I don’t think I even know 234 people in the entire world.’

      Mitch is my favourite person to hang out with apart from Aziz because they represent opposite ends of a spectrum. I’m either destined to be an over-confident buffoon like Aziz or a curmudgeon like Mitch. He is balding but still carries a comb in his blazer pocket. That vintage attitude is why I like him. I may find the concept of hankies revolting, but I’m glad for him having one. He’s Friendster in a Twitter universe, dial-up in a web 2.0 second life. He is my meatspace. Mitch likes to talk about the good ol’ days. I’ve missed him these last few months.

      ‘That’s cos you’re a barfly.’

      ‘Very true. But 234 people?’

      ‘Maybe I need to cull some people,’ I admitted.

      ‘You definitely do,’ Mitch said and shook his head. He went outside for a cigarette.

      I could easily get rid of 400-odd people, I thought. I could reclaim my space. I could hide the ‘add’ button too. Make it harder to approach me. The only 3 requests in my ‘add’ folder were 3 people I didn’t know or have mutual friends with. And the only 2 people in my folder labelled ‘pending requests’ were Kitab 2 and new-to-Facebook Rach. Now she wanted to be friends. I’d left her hanging.

      Mitch came back, stinking of fresh cigarette to add to the dull ache of old nicotine ingrained in his sports coat. ‘The reason I hate modern life,’ he declared, loud enough for those around us to hear, sermonising, ‘why I love books, is all this bullshit you’re saying … that’s what we’re reduced to, isn’t it? Etchings and imprints … Connections used to be important. Now it’s all selfies and sandwiches on Twitter. Now the very meaning of the word, it doesn’t mean shit. Associations have some weird cultural capital now.’

      ‘Innit,’ I said, to purposely undercut him.

      ‘Did you get a friend request from Rach?’ I nodded. ‘You know she has a new boyfriend?’

      ‘You’re Facebook friends with Rach?’

      ‘Oh, yes. Dunno why you don’t go out anymore.’

      ‘She dumped me. She said because I was a self-obsessed depressive.’

      ‘She does have a joie de vivre you don’t really do …’ he said, downing the rest of his pint and signalling for another 2.

      ‘I’m going through a lot of stuff, man.’

      ‘No need to act like a bore about it.’

      ‘Anyway, what’s your problem with Twitter?’

      ‘I don’t “do” Twitter. It’s all pictures of sandwiches and misspelled signs, no?’

      ‘Only for those who don’t use it properly.’

      ‘That’s what your feed is full of … Anyways, I hate how we’re all diminishing circles of actual friendship.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘All your followers and all your Facebook friends know your every movement. Your real friends know what you’re like. Where’s someone who knows both?’

      ‘That used to be Rach. But then she hated it when I was always online.’

      ‘Look at her now. She can’t get enough of the stuff.’

      ‘She’s a social animal,’ I mumbled. ‘Just another content queen.’

      When I got home, I Googled Mitch to verify how off-radar he was. It didn’t take many search results to discover Mitch had a secret blog that no one knew about, called ‘The Weird Shit People Say to Me’. Of the entries, 3 could be attributed to me. I don’t mind.

      ‘I’m really excited about this trip,’ Aziz tells me as we’re sitting in his room. ‘I packed your camera, for the posterity.’

      ‘It is effectively yours. You use it all the time.’

      ‘How else can I document my lifestyle? No one would believe me otherwise.’

      ‘Just keep it,’ I said of the unwanted present Dad bought me Duty Free when he returned from a singles holiday to Prague last year.

      ‘Yeah, you can’t frame a decent shot.’

      ‘Decent framed pictures do rule the world.’

      ‘If only I could Instagram some of those sexcapades. The world isn’t ready.’

      Aziz has packed enough underwear for a week, but only 3 t-shirts, because they’re his coolest. He bought a black vest that resembles the one Teddy Baker’s wearing in his photograph. He and I debate the word wife-beater. He ends it by telling me to man up, which irks me into a sulk. I then ask whereabouts in New York Teddy Baker lives.

      ‘Well, it says Brooklyn on his account,’ Aziz says, lifting his suitcase up and down like he’s weight training with it.

      ‘Wait, you didn’t message him?’

      ‘Nah, man, that’s part of the surprise.’

      ‘You’re going to just turn up? He’ll think you’re weird.’

      ‘Part of the challenge is getting through the awkwardness and getting to be best friends,’ Aziz says, downing his tea.

      ‘How do you know how to find him? You know New York’s pretty massive, right?’

      ‘Dude, give me some motherfrickin’ credit. I Googled him. I found his Facebook, his Twitter, his Foursquare and his Linkedin. I know where he works right now. I can see where he checks in on Foursquare or just follow his Twitter. Mate, I’ll find the guy. All I have to do is turn my wi-fi on.’

      ‘And your data roaming off. I ain’t helping you with another mobile phone bill.’

      ‘That was different. That was phone chat lines.’

      ‘Yeah, I’m not helping you pay another mobile phone bill because you’re too much of a dick to use your phone wisely.’

      ‘Fine, anyway, stop making this awkward for me. I was excited till I spoke to you. You know, Kit, you’re such a hangover depressive. You just gotta smiley face up. Smiley face up.’

      Aziz points at me. I force a smile.

      ‘Yeah. Sorry, man.’

      ‘What’s your 5-point plan for your new tattoo? It’s new tattoo day. Today your life will change, just a little bit. And it’ll be fucking awesome.’

      ‘I dunno, get some breakfast, do some writing. I got a reading later. Whatever.’

      ‘Okay, СКАЧАТЬ