Playing The Odds
One man’s asshole is another man’s good times. So it is written, so it has always been. Oh, there are a rare handful of people who everyone agrees are nice guys, but in general your assholishness is a percentage score, tabulated silently by everyone who meets you and revealed via conversations about you in rooms that you’re not in.
Not everyone’s going to like you. That clever comment you made about Iraq comes off as callous and callow to a third party, who remembers this the next time your name comes up. Your helpful advice comes off your lips and somewhere in the air between you transforms into condescending buffoonery. Your admiration becomes a pool of stupid fanboyism, filled with enthusiasm and a time-wasting lack of no content. No matter how carefully you phrase, that gulf between intent and verbalization can hamstring you like a hungry wolf.
I’d say that telepathy might solve the problem, but then again it probably wouldn’t; some folks have thoughts that repulse others, and opening up someone else’s head like a can of worms would probably cause more problems than it solves.
Thing is, some days I’d pay quite a bit of money to know my actual score.
I have two basic modes: introverted watcher and enthusiastic participant. Half the time I don’t know anyone, and so I’m sitting quietly in the chair like a child during a time-out, smiling painfully and wishing I was one of the cool kids. Then, once I get comfortable, I immediately swing to the other end and start telling whatever stories come to mind as though what I have to say is actually interesting.
I know I’m good on some levels, because I try not to dominate and I like to hear what others have to say. Quiet folks have told me they like being around me at parties, because I will shush an entire crowd to make room for an anecdote they were trying to tell. I interact, not dominate, at least as far as the feedback goes.
That’s fine.
Yet my sense of humor is tricky. I tend to say outrageous things merely because I think of them, and I’ll find myself telling the craziest sex stories I know to people I met twenty minutes ago. I’m effusive with admiration if I find someone attractive, telling them flat-out that they’re gorgeous.
When I’m in comfort mode, I interact a lot with people. And I hope that my interactions leave them feeling good about themselves, or at the very least like I’ve contributed something to their enjoyment of the party. If I’m going to be on the warpath, talking to tons of folks in an attempt to get to know them, I hope hope hope that I’m someone they’re happy to chat with for a bit and not God, someone take this asshole away from me.
You don’t know. I hear the gossip about other people, and I know from years of experience that nobody’s liked one hundred percent. We track our friendships in mostlies and buts, making quiet excuses for their behavior that are so subtle and ephemeral we often don’t think of their qualities as faults until someone else grouses.
The gossip flows like wine from that ugly percentage. Somewhere between the triple-digit goodness percentage of “paragon” and the double-digit imperfection of you comes is that slim catalogue of your faults, quirks, and habits. It’s what people note about you when you’re not there because in a group, we all like you, but…. What you do is excusable or they wouldn’t talk to you any more, but they do excuse. They do wring their hands at some of your lifestyle choices. They worry, even as it’s not quite bad enough to bring to your attention, not yet, but it’s being monitored by folks who care….
I don’t want to need the excuse. But I probably do. But how often, and how much?
Thing is, you almost never know what the gestalt judgment is until it’s too late. By the time you find out hey, you’re 68.4% asshole, you’re already finding your social circle puckering around the edges. That percentage-meter creeps up over some unknowable red line, and suddenly the excuses vanish as everyone goes, “Hey, he’s more asshole than friend!” And bam. Gone.
We all exist in this web of quiet feedback. Even if you don’t think you do, well, you probably do. It’s just human nature.
The thing is, nothing happened last night. It was, insofar as I can tell, an awesome night filled with the usual spankings and laughing and dancing. I get invited back to cons and social gatherings most of the time, so I can only assume that on the whole I’m a net positive.
I’m not comfortable with that, though. I don’t want the world to love me – the world is a harsh mistress who laughs and crushes those dreams as casually as you’d put out a cigarette – but I want to play the goddamn odds. I can’t hit 90% universal love with an abrasive personality like mine, but can I hit a strong 75?
How can I tell?
I tapdance on that line, sometimes. I make my business off of being outrageous, of saying the things that most people wouldn’t say because they wouldn’t think of it or just wouldn’t utter it out loud, and that’s going to offend a few.
But so close. One misphrase, one drunken comment, and I could slip off of that wet tightrope and fall into a net of excuses. I could hurt someone. And that’s what keeps me awake on cold nights sometimes. Or even harsh winter mornings.
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