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On Social Networking

Christine Barba

    “Welcome to another shitty introduction course that the university forced me to teach,” Mr. Triste said, squinting at the students sitting in the amphitheater.
    The students resembled clusters of shriveled vegetables in the produce section, and they stared back at him, but not for long. They could not sustain their heads for more than two minutes before looking down and typing some important update into their laptops or cellular devices.
    Mr. Triste wiped his black, square rimmed glasses, lifted them to his face, and looked up at the mass of teenagers narrowing their eyes into slits or pushing their glasses further up on their noses to get a better look at him. He straightened his goatee. Then he smiled so widely that all 32 teeth poked out from his gums. In this day and age, he couldn’t look anything less than a god. Photos would be taken.
    Mr. Triste pointed at the large white screen guarding the class, and scribbled in the date with his fingers, September 1^st, 2042. The pyramid-like arrangements of seats stood before this little man like those that sat before Congress in the State of the Internet address. Mr. Triste looked down as his fingers raced across his phone’s keypad. Then his head shot upward.
     “I don’t have an introduction to the course because we all know that today, I am preaching what should be religious doctrine to every boy and girl in this audience,” he said.
    He stretched his mouth as far as he could, waiting for the applause and camera flashes to cease.
    “I mean common, did our grandparents live in an age when not having a social networking account was illegal?” he added.
    Nearly everyone laughed. A few students picked at their fingernails. These students probably thought of their poor parents, who had gotten summons for not creating accounts for them once they reached middle school.
    “Now, Thomas Hardy was a guy who believed that the universe didn’t give a shit about us,” Mr. Triste said shaking his head. “He believed that whether we win a million dollars or are mauled by coyotes, the universe just don’t care.” He paced back and forth.
    “But today, in the midst of modern technology, we know that this is untrue. Everyone,” he paused for emphasis, and pointed at his students, “gives a shit about us.”
    Mr. Triste took a breath, and then pulled a camera out of his pocket. He walked up to a lanky blonde boy in the front row.
    “Can you take a picture of me?” This action was second nature to the boy whose fingers were bent in the position of one taking a photo. He snapped one of his professor who had run to flip over his podium. Mr. Triste was standing on it, giving the thumbs up, and smiling.
    The flash went off and Mr. Triste retrieved his camera.
    “Thanks, I’ll upload that after class,” Mr. Triste said.
    A redhead girl dotted with freckles raised her hand.
    “Yes, Pippy?” Mr. Triste looked at her grinning.
    She tapped her foot against the linoleum.
    “Uh, I was just wondering if me and my friends can get a picture with you?”
    “Of course, can we get one on my camera too?” Mr. Triste said.
    The rest of the class sat there typing away on their laptops, programmed to accept such interruptions.
    After the photo was taken, Mr. Triste continued.
    “Now, in a class titled Social Networking 101, what do I mean by everyone gives a flying cahoot?” he asked.
    A girl with long black hair and black eyeliner living around her eyes like she was a cat raised her hand.
    “You, emo girl,” Mr. Triste said.
    “That it’s our job as productive citizens to log onto the social networking site and show everyone the happiest, greatest versions of ourselves,” she said without stopping.
    The rest of the class mouthed what she said in unison like a group of Catholic school students whispering the Hail Mary. A friend in the seat next to the girl held up a camera, and they stuck out their tongues and gave peace signs as they tried to look as cheerful as they could.
    “I couldn’t have said it better myself!” Mr. Triste exclaimed. “Your parents have been taking photos of you and uploading them to The Social Networking Site since your births, but the government didn’t force you to create accounts until junior high. We all know college is the time to reinforce your roles in the realm of social networking,” he said.
    He stopped a minute, and walked over to his computer to type something into The Site. “Having a great time in class so far!” he typed.
    The students took some time to update their own statuses with messages such as “Having an amazing, spectacular, wonderful day today!” Students who were in the mood for some loving words typed statuses such as, “Miserable, having the worst day of my life!” This group made sure to add sad faces at the end.
     Mr. Triste looked up. “Anyways, it is our job, to prove to our friends, family, coworkers, ex boyfriends, girlfriends, professors etc, that we are the happiest, most satisfied, beautiful version of ourselves. Our part in the networking community establishes this and all we or anyone we know has to do to realize how flawless and fun we are is to look at our profiles.”
    The class nodded in agreement.
    Camera flashes blinded Mr. Triste and other students, but he nodded and clapped.
    “Now for tonight what I want you all to do is to go on the Social Networking Site for four hours. I want you to look at all of your ex boyfriend or girlfriends’ most recent photos and statuses, and I want you to analyze how all of the statuses were developed especially for you. There is a purpose behind every update, and you will know immediately that these purposes are always directed towards you. Even if it says ‘Taking my cat for a walk,’ we all know that the status is about you. You are God.” The bobble head version of himself that sat on the podium expressed its approval.
    “Next, I want you to go on the profiles, gazing at people you haven’t seen since high school. Look at their vacation photos and on Wednesday we will discuss how to put up photos that will make you look as if you’re having just as much fun as they are. Tonight, I want you to spend at least two hours editing your photos to the point that you don’t even look like yourselves anymore. You want to look like models in a magazine. A formula for happiness has been created and we are lucky enough to live in the time when this is possible,” Mr. Triste said, working hard to broaden his mouth.
    Just as Mr. Triste began walking over to look at his laptop, a girl raised her hand. He gazed at her. Her rosy cheeks, bright eyes, and smile, didn’t blend in with the rest of the class. Mr. Triste had to blink a minute, because she still hadn’t put her head down.
    “You, Blondie?” he said.
    “Carly,” she corrected, twisting her ring around her finger.
    “Blondie.”
    “I don’t have the Internet, and so I don’t have an account on The Social Networking site,” she said.
    Everyone stopped shuffling papers, zipping up back backs, and stood there, gaping at her. A gasp reverberated throughout the room. Carly sat there like a witch on trial.
    Mr. Triste looked her up and down. “How,” he breathed, “have you gotten through life?”
    Carly sighed. “My family just can’t afford it. They never thought The Networking Site was a necessary expense,” she said.
    “They know that they can be arrested for this,” Mr. Triste said.
    “Yes, of course, but they feel that it’s for my benefit” she said.
    “I guess you don’t have healthcare either!” someone shouted.
    Again, Mr. Triste stared. “Your benefit?” he laughed. “Do you go to counseling?” he asked.
    “Counseling, for what?” she said.
    “Doesn’t it make you very unhappy to never know what other people are doing?” Mr. Triste said.
    “No,” Carly replied. “It seems like a lot of work.”
    Everyone’s heads were turned her way.
    “Well yes, this is a class. You’re going to have to work,” Mr. Triste said.
    Carly pulled on her hair. “I mean I’m happy, but it seems like a lot of work to try and look like I am.”
    Everyone scrunched their eyebrows or shook their heads. One girl made the cookoo sign.
    “I don’t understand.” Mr. Triste was scrunching his fist. “I have to talk to your parents,” he said.
    “Okay, sorry,” Carly said and walked out of the room before the rest of the class.
    The clap of textbooks shutting was heard and everyone shuffled out of the room like automated robots. Their mouths remained in straight lines, but the moment they saw someone with a camera they shifted gears, painting wide grins on otherwise blank faces.
    ***
    A girl with bleached blonde hair, gaunt cheeks, and a palate of makeup on her face shuffled out of class with a tall boy with shaggy black hair.
    “Tolbert, will you come with me Saturday to go on a hot air balloon ride?” she asked.
    Tolbert scratched his head for a minute. “Sure, I’ll go with you Mallory.”
    “Okay, great. So the goal is to get at least 100 photos, cause we have to make it look like we’re having a good time,” she said.
    “Yeah, definitely.” he agreed. “But do you think you can come over Friday and get at least 50 pictures with me and my little sister. I want Deidre to think I’m a good brother.”
    “Sure,” she said.
    Mallory and Tolbert’s mouths rested in straight lines, but as soon as they saw a camera pop out, like marionettes, they opened the creases of their mouths, showing every tooth.
    “So what’d you think of that weird girl in our class?” Mallory asked.
    “I dunno, she’s probably really depressed all the time,” Tolbert said.
    They walked toward their dorms, with their eyelids cast down, and a gray mist of color barely peaking out underneath their lids. They sped up, hoping to get back to the dorms to on their computers.
    “So what’re you up to now?” Tolbert asked.
    “I’m probably gonna spend an hour or three finding some quote or song lyric for my status that’ll make me look intellectual or something,” she said. “How about you?”
    “Yeah, after I analyze Deidre’s status, I’ll probably do that too,” Tolbert said. “She put up song lyrics the other day about a girl getting ice cream with her mom, but I know it’s about me cause we got ice cream on our first date,” he said.
    “Duh, of course it was,” Mallory said nodding.
    Tolbert branched off from Malory to go to his dorm. Before, saying goodbye, they took a picture together in front of the dumpsters.
    “It’ll make us look adventurous,” Mallory said.
    Tolbert sat in his tiny dorm room, which was covered with photos of him and his friends. Because he was on the first floor, there was a cage covering his window. He stared out of it, watching a family play on the turf running parallel to the dorm. The mom and dad were kicking a soccer ball around with their little boy.
    The family snapped millions of photos of the boy, but the boy simply ran away laughing, oblivious to anything but the ball in front of him. He wouldn’t have to join The Networking Site until middle school.
    The boy reminded Tolbert of someone. He tapped his finger against his chin, trying to get a better glimpse of the boys’ eyes and carefree smile.
    “That’s it!” Tolbert said to his empty room. The boy reminded him of that odd girl Carly.
    ***
    “Oh good, someone’s finally using those glasses I bought for us on New Years,” Carly’s mom said as she entered the kitchen and walked over to the toaster.
    Carly sat down, gazing at the coffee cup rings intermingling with their dark wood table. The table hadn’t fit in with the rest of the decrepit kitchen – broken dishwasher, pots and pans littering the sink, pizza stains on the white walls - but at least these rings proved that the table was trying.
    Carly lifted her wine glass, the 2042 glaring at her from the other end, and making her feel cross-eyed. The water that slid down her throat with the morning’s cheerios was the equivalent of a single drop of rain.
    “Yeah, but it’s so small I can only take one sip,” she said.
    “What’re you your father?” Her mother asked. “I only had one sip.”
    They both laughed as Carly’s father emerged from the cave, the bedroom in their cabin-like, ranch style home.
    “What was that?” he asked, already having heard the slight.
    Carly smiled. “These glasses mom bought don’t fit much water in them,” she said.
    “Well just fill it up again Einstein,” her father said as he picked up the other one, filled it up, took a sip, then added, “you’re right, these kind of suck.”
    Her mom let out a deep sigh.
    “So are we still going on that hike today?” Carly asked.
    Her mom was buttering a bagel.
    “Yeah, I guess I’ll start getting that 100 pounds off,” her mom said, her laughter echoing through the room.
    “I should really start exercising again too,” her dad added patting his beer belly.
    “No, I really am starting my diet this week though,” her mom continued.
    “Uh huh,” Carly said rolling her eyes.
    She looked at her small, dysfunctional family. Her mom was chubby with long blonde hair, and a big bosom to store all of her laughter. Her dad was short with a beer gut, auburn hair and an auburn beard.
    Her dad leaned against the counter, and scratched his head.
    “First, we need to figure out what you’re going to do about tomorrow.”
    Carly’s mom came and sat next to her at the table.
    “I know,” Carly said.
    “If your teacher gives you a problem about not having the Internet, you call me and we’ll have to get it straightened out,” he said.
    “I know,” she said.
    “Alright, now let’s go hiking!” her dad said mimicking karate moves.
    “Yippy!” her mom shouted.
    Carly smiled. Through the years, her classmates had always asked her,
    “How do you smile without trying? Don’t you have a lot to worry about with you’re parents always being in danger with the law?”
    Everyone asked her parents the same thing.
    “I don’t know,” Carly would reply giggling. “I’ve never had to try to smile.”
    Carly looked out the kitchen window. Her parents always left it open, and she let the September sun hit her face.
    An elderly woman was slowly inching her way towards the window. Her “I was a 90s baby” t-shirt revealed that she must be around Carly’s parents’ age.
    People are dying younger and younger, Carly thought. But she was never too concerned about her parents, who were always complimented on their youthful appearances.
    The woman’s bony fingers were twisted in a way that was similar to the boy in Carly’s class: they appeared to be always ready to take a photo. Her eyes were sunken into two unrecognizable holes. She was squinting and tears poured out of her eyes. This sight was not uncommon to Carly; most people from her parents’ generation were blind. The woman tried to put her big black sunglasses on, but her head was tilted so far downward that they kept falling off.
    Sighing, the woman did the only thing that came easy to her. She grabbed her cell phone, and went to work updating her status.

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