Stray words

on texting

Edit: This is officially my most misinterpreted post and if you text me opening with “I know you hate texting,” know that you missed the point. Or I didn’t make the point. Either way. Stop it. I’m only leaving it up in case I start dating someone, and they enjoy texting. God help them.

I came of age when long distance phone calls had to be rushed or your phone bill would break you. My first year or so in the Air Force, phone calls came to a pay phone in the stairwell. Someone would answer the ringing phone, shout down the hallway, and another airman would knock on your door to tell you your mom was on the line. Inevitably, while you talked to your mom or your grandma or your friend back home in Texas, random airmen from your floor would pop their heads into the stairwell to check if the phone was free, if you were done yet, how long are you going to be?

If we wanted to call home, we’d buy phone cards at the BX for anywhere from 5 to 100 dollars. I developed a strange sense of exactly how long 50 minutes felt. When the card ran out, you got a minute warning to punch in the number of another card, or the phone went dead.

I got my first cell phone somewhere around 1999. It only worked on one corner of dorm block, near the massive air conditioners, so every call was muted by the near deafening hum of the machines. Then I got out of the Air Force and couldn’t buy more minutes, probably owed for minutes I’d gone over. My friend Jay wore the dead phone on his belt for awhile so he’d look like he owned a cell phone. I’m not sure what he did if anyone asked for the number.

My first text message came from a girl I’d started dating when I was still living with my ex. This was 2004. We weren’t exactly friendly, my ex and I. We’d come to a sort of peace once we’d arranged who was moving out and who was taking over the lease. We could be civil for the last few weeks, or something like it. I remember we were watching TV and my phone kept doing this weird beeping thing. And that’s how my ex had to explain how to text message my new girlfriend.

A few weeks later, she got the bill and we learned text messages weren’t part of the cell plan. We had a ridiculous fight over who’d been texting more. I still say it was her as she’d also been texting whomever she was dating and I wasn’t allowed to use my phone at work. We ended up splitting the bill. It’s always easier to back down when you have an exit date. Either way, I got my own plan that included texting. The rest, as we all know, is a meme about millenials not knowing how to use rotary phones and a few hundred thousand tweets about how it’s rude/psychopathic/not cool at all to call someone without texting first.

Now that I’m typing this it seems funnier that the first girl who texted me also broke up with me by text message. We were living together then. I feel like she could’ve waited until we both got home.

Maybe all this is why I’m an outlier in the whole texting vs. phone call wars that were settled long before our parents joined facebook. Which is to say, I fucking hate texting.

Hating texting isn’t a helpful trait if you want to communicate with human beings who near universally communicate through text. It’s certainly not helpful if you want to date anyone. For years now, most of my relationships, serious or not, have begun online, whether it be Match or OkCupid or Tinder. You start with short form. A couple messages to check there’s a human being who has any interest in you, or you them. You move to long form messages and or coffee. (We’ll cover why I hate coffee dates in another pointless essay I’m sure). And eventually, if everything checks out, you determine you want to fuck, you trade phone numbers. And the fucking texting begins.

That I don’t mind, and even sometimes enjoy texting, doesn’t mean that I’m full of shit. I like the texts that are here’s a funny thing I just saw or read or heard. Can you believe this dumbass I have to work beside. Look at this fuckin’ dog. Do you want to get drinks later. How’s that thing you were worried about. You have to hear this song. All the different ways we say, I’m thinking about you.

The texting I loathe is the texting that replaces communication with misunderstandings and clarifications and stray words and three hours have gone by and I haven’t taken my dog out. I hate that I can’t text without losing my train of thought. I hate what we don’t say, because it’s too long to type.

I hate the texting that ends in a fight because all tone and context is gone. (You’d think I’d have an advantage here. I’m supposed to be a professional writer. Let me assure you I do not.) I hate the texting that continues when one party is mad or hurt and the other doesn’t know. They’re just happily texting away about their dog story while the other party is still on what the fuck did you just say to me. I hate watching someone devolve into desperation as texts go unanswered or answered with one word. I hate when that someone is me. I hate when the texting slowly dies. And I hate everyone who sends me a text, causing me to look at my phone, when the only person I want to text is silent.

Probably strange that I’m a writer who doesn’t believe texting is real. Part of the problem is that the single most effective way to make sure I’m not writing is to text me. Whatever sentence I had in my head is gone. I’ve picked up my phone. Maybe I can try writing again tomorrow because I am fucked for the day.

Funny how something that’s not real holds such power. But texting is not real. It’s not a letter. Something you can hold in your hand with a smudge in the corner. I know texting isn’t real because when something is ending—a friendship, a relationship—texting is the only form of communication left. When the unexpected phone calls stop, it’s already over. I’m just waiting for the texting to die too. I’ll play along. I’ll still text back. I’ll tell myself I’m wrong. I’ll hope. Maybe I believe this because I’ve been in too many long distance relationships and watched them slowly die over text. But once a few too many calls have gone unanswered, I know the answer to the question I won’t ask.

I can’t prove it but I’ll say it anyway because no one’s fact-checking me here. Most breakups and divorces could’ve been prevented if some asshole hadn’t invented text messaging and we all hadn’t stupidly agreed texting is preferable to phone calls.

I still fucking love phone calls. I love surprise phone calls from my cousin in Oregon—the only person I know who hates texting as much as I do, maybe more. I love phone calls from my mom who just wants to ask the name of a show with that actor she likes from that other show about a heist. I love phone calls from a friend in California I haven’t seen in a few years—remember that time we randomly hung out in Berlin and how did we end up doing coke in a bathroom with an Australian girl who kept showing us her boobs. Are you coming up anytime soon? Maybe we can make it to Austin. And I love calls from someone when I am dating. The unexpected calls because something crazy just happened and she needs to tell me. Shit the uber’s here. Gotta go. I love the near-scheduled calls. The calls you get used to check in, to say goodnight. I love the calls that go on too long and you’re both dead the next day but fuck it was worth it. I love the background noises in a phone call. The birds outside the window. The neighbor who always slams the door. The cabinet. The fridge door. The seltzer can popped open. The blankets rustling. The heavy sighs and the caught breaths. The tone. The voice. The tangents and forgotten points. The fucking reality of someone on the other end of the line.

My old postman called today. The postman in Barnstable who wanted to make clear which Tom he is because they’re both named Tom. The Tom who called is the Tom who gave me a hug when the box of books came in from my publisher and said, would you look at that, a real writer. Tom who promised to read my book, no he didn’t want a free copy. Against postal regulations. Tom who read my book. Tom who just got a package for me and wanted to double check my forwarding address was correct. Tom who wanted to tell me he’s a granddad now.

I could hear the pride in his voice. I could smell the post office and hear the traffic outside and see his dewy eyes behind his glasses. I felt connected again. Just for a moment. Because Tom wanted to check my address. And Tom’s the kind of guy who makes a phone call.

If I had one wish, it would be that we’re all a little more like Tom, at least if you want me to keep texting you.