By The Guy Yelling Behind You In The UgLi
“Steve! Hah, holy shit. Is this kid deaf or something? Dude was on my hall freshman year.”
I need him to know that I, too, am here in this shared space, but a nonverbal method of communication simply won’t do.
“Yo Steve! I’m waving. He looked like straight over here and I’m obviously waving.”
Perchance it’s a simple lack of trying on my part. I’m not a gambler, but I sure can embrace their logical fallacy: a third consecutive verbal appraisal—a more specific and recognizable one, to boot—should be sufficient. I was here to study, but this present situation demands full attention. My tablemates surely understand. Third time’s the charm!
“Steve Parker! That motherfucker. I should just go tackle him or something.”
Foiled yet again! Still, I did see a glance; a slight turn of head. A properly-timed follow up will trigger the echolocator he keeps between his ears, and allow me to reach my friend without getting up from my seat. But alas—I am on the precipice. For that was my third shout, and the babes at the table behind us have totally noticed and probably think I’m desperate for social proof. In this moment, I have a choice: do I shout out Steve’s name a fourth time, risking intragroup status upon rejection or do I double down and brazenly call others to my space in a display of social positioning the likes of which my Anthro 101 professor isn’t even qualified to analyze? Here goes nothing.
STEVE FUCKING PARKER! Look at him—nerd’s got the most limp-wristed wave I’ve ever seen.
