Exile

“Three friends just unfriended you on FaceBook!  Find out who!”

Stop the press! 

Really?

Only three?

That’s what the advertising banner scrolled over my online waking world this morning.

“You’re a loser!  See who knows it!”

That’s my Rosetta Stone translator hard at work. Pretty accurate, huh?  Yeah, I got the subtext model. It’s awesome.  I had the salesman tell me all about it for a half-hour, then verified his pitch against the product.

“I’m not on commission, you’re wasting my time,” Rosetta said.

“Sold,” said I.

“Sold,” it translated.  Yeah, it’s good at the obvious too.

But back to my mutinous FaceBook friends, it seems to me, it doesn’t really pay to know who’s abandoned the friend-ship: They’ve already boarded rafts and paddled to sea. Chances are, if I don’t already know who they are, I’m not going to miss them.  I didn’t click the link.

I have noticed life’s “friend” list shortening lately. I don’t know why. Neither does MyQueen.

“I don’t know, baby.  You should have lots of new friends.”

“You’re a grumpy old recluse,” said Roset—“and people find you a little standoffish.” Oh, it wasn’t done translating. 

“…and you yell, ‘get off my lawn’ way too much.”

Great.

I dunno. My writer’s life has left me secluded with all my friends of youth scattered around the states. It’s something I didn’t realize until I bought a Subtext Translator.

“You’re alone.”

“I have my wife.”

“You’re pathetic.”

Huh, I never knew.  Even I’m saying it. It must be true.  So I spent this last week trying to open up my world to relationships.  Monday, I took Rosetta to the mall and opened conversations the same way I did in school.

“Hi!  My name is Rob.”

“Hi his name is Rob.”

“Get away, That’s my wife, you creep.”

“Get away. That’s my wife, you creep.”

After several failed attempts, I discovered through Rosetta and observation, that mall people are sincere, but unfriendly. Probably not the people I need to enhance my friendships, Facebook or otherwise.

I think the problem is, that adults look for subtext. Nothing is as simple as face value. Point Rosetta at kids and you get, “Hi! My name is Rob.”

By Tuesday, I decided alter the age of my targets. Adults were suspicious.  Maybe kids would get me.  I mean, my nieces like me.  So, I went to a grade school and started talking to kids.

I didn’t need Rosetta.  The cop and the mob of angry torch wielding parents still banging on my front door communicated their message clear enough.

“We are not your friends.”

Still, I didn’t want to give up on my quest.  The problem was still adults, but I figured that maybe I was shooting too young in my friend-search.  It was Wednesday, and one of my porch Mom’s had spray painted “Perv” on my window. One of the other mothers ran up to her a new can of paint so she could complete her word.

“They love you,” said MyQueen as she snuck out the garage.

“You’re an idiot,” suggested Rosetta.

I watched MyQueen slouch into her car and peel out. On her way past, she screamed, “Pervert!” and threw a tomato at the front door.

“I love you, have a great day,” translated Rosetta.

It appeared I was trapped in the house for the rest of day.  How could I work on getting friends?  I’ve heard strong bonds formed in war. In fact the people on my porch were getting pretty chummy hurling rocks at my effigy.

“Nice shot, Frank!”

“Thanks Gabe.”

 I didn’t have the means to commiserate. What could I do? 

After a pot of coffee I got an idea.  Maybe virtual friends were the answer.  People talked over video games all the time.  It just so happened that MyQueen had given me a few new games for Christmas.  I opened one case marked, “Dishonored.” It seemed appropriate for my current situation.

Dishonored is a Steampunk-ish game based in a world where everybody dresses in Victorian England garb and gets eaten by swarms of rats. The protagonist works through the game killing enemies or banishing them to full lives of humiliation (Something I was beginning to relate to very well), all with the goal of saving the young princess and restoring Corvo’s name.

“Perfect!”

“Perfect!”

Three day’s later I’d saved the princess, slaughtered some bad guys, and been eaten by hundreds of rats.  More importantly though, I’d restored my name. I had friends cheering me on and lauding my successes.   I’d spent three sleepless days and retained a permanent Play Station 3 hand cramp. Now I had friends—until I turned off the game.

It seems that “Dishonored” is a single person game, and all my new friends were Victorian garbed 1’s and 0’s. When I turned the game back on, they’d forgotten who I was and why they should like me.

“That sucks.”

“You’re a moron.”

As usual, Rosetta knew best. Even MyQueen had grown a little weary of me.

“Honey, you stink and you’re friends are peeing on my lawn.”

“Honey, you stink—“

“Yeah, I got it.

“…lawn.”

Sigh.

I dunno.  This friend thing is tougher when you get older.  As kids, it was a matter of “Hi, my name is Rob.”  That pretty much worked for all thing friendship all the way through college.  Sprinkle that with some music trivia and the ability to perform a keg stand and I was a good guy to know. Now these talents just get me stares.

“Weirdo.  Why don’t you grow up?” Translates Rosetta.

I did. That’s the problem. So did my friends. We all found roads to follow, and all roads led from home. Since then I’ve moved my home, worked out of that roaming home and found the end’s fruit in my email, “Three friends just unfriended you on FaceBook!  Find out who!”

“Looks like it’s you and me, Rosetta.”

“Four friends just unfriended you on FaceBook!  Find out who!”

Et tu?

So in the end, even Rosetta was just a marketing ploy.  What do I do now?  I do the only thing I can do.  There’s a crowd of angry parents singing Kumbaya on my lawn. They look thirsty for blood.  Maybe it’s time I snuck out the back with 12-pack of soda, crept around the alley to the front of the house and offered them something else to drink. I can introduce myself, and we can yell, “Pervert!” at the creep inside the house.