For those who live overseas from their family there can be no better invention than the video call. Unless you’ve been living under a rock on Jupiter for the last six years, this magic platform of soul-stealing technology means you can talk face to face with people anywhere as long as they have a connection, a camera, and a face.
Thursday night, I had plans with a friend who lives in Prague. In the end, he suggests meeting online. It’s cold and shitty outside; a steady cold rain has been coming down as if the gods have accidentally left their shower just a little bit on. Plus, my friend and I have a tendency to shoot Becherovka as if he’s a mob informant, so home is better. Nevertheless, I am more than happy to go along with this. I celebrate by making vegetarian chili and picking up some beers at the local shop.
We drink and chat. The night is gloomy and long outside, but we are happy. One of the few downsides to meeting friends for drinks is the part where you have to pay your (and sometimes another’s) bill and then make the long slog home. In mid-November, that long slog is done in the dark and the cold and the wet. Tonight, I am in the comfort of my own home, literally a sideways pratfall into my bed. My beer and drinks have already been paid for. No waiter will show up at my desk with a bill, a judgemental look, and a credit card scanner. The night ends in 40% happiness. I watch videos and send some messages after our chat, but the content of these skirts my memory.
Until I wake up the next morning. My head is ringing and there are tears of past joy gathering in my eyes. Burke has left out the Aleve and I grapple with its cap like a UFC fighter. After I hydrate, cry, caffeinate, cry in joy because I don’t have to teach today, I take out my phone. The first message is from my sister: ‘So, is 2 pm my side OK? Can maybe do 1:30.”
“Huh,” say I, in a growing panic.
“These messages have all the telltale signs of making arrangements to drink tonight.” I scroll back a few bubbles of messages where my fears are instantly confirmed. Not only that, it seems that I was the instigator of said meeting. There are no two ways about it. I argue my way out of the meeting, but as the day presses on and Burke foresees a night of a TV unencumbered by my wishes and a whole night of Mad Men, she more or less gently urges me in the direction of keeping the plans.
“It’s your sister,” she says. “You know, blood is thicker than beer.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“She’s going to busy soon – the holidays.”
It should be mentioned that while we’re discussing this, Burke is getting the futon ready, pulling her cover and pillow off the bed. She’s checking to make sure she has a popsicle left in the freezer, charges, her phone, and pours a glass of lemonade.
“You should talk to her.”
I go back to the shop for beer. The first one or two sips are tough, but they get easier after. Too easy. We chat late into the night. There’s family drama and investment discussions. We talk about the upcoming holidays and wax nostalgic about past ones. Again, when we get off the call, I watch a few videos. It’s always fun to watch Spiers storm the German lines in Bastogne when you’ve had a few. And Ted Lasso has a way of making a tipsy brain laugh and cry. I get into bed.
One of the great joys of video calling comes for us anxious people. Waking up the next day and having set myself into a tipsy automatic pilot on the way home the night before, there’s always the worry I did something stupid on public transport. But when your bed is next to the table you’re drinking at, no such chance – not unless I message someone and stupidly commit myself to another day of drinking.
But tonight, I’m good. Nope. I make sure not to write to anyone. No mistakes will be made tonight. I will wake up Sunday having done nothing bad and will enjoy the uber-freedom of Sunday with a Monday holiday.
Sunday’s message is an email from a friend in the U.S. “It’ll be great to chat with you tomorrow. It’s been too long and Jamie and I both made sure we have tomorrow night (i.e. Sunday) to chat with you! We’ll see you during the Steelers game. 1 pm our time / 7 pm your time.
The email thread runs deep. I am almost afraid to follow it back, but I do. And back there, way back, is a message from me agreeing to meet online Sunday, November 16. Who’d have thought that drinking with friends at home would be more dangerous than going out? When the time comes, I open a bottle of wine. There’s a little Bushmills, too – I’m only Irish and human.
My friends are a little distracted and I am OK with that. We talk books and people and football and working out. By the second half, they are ready to get back to their game and I am ready to get into bed and destroy my phone against a wall lest it deliver anymore news of online meetings. I said good night and, breathing a sigh of relief, hit the little red button to shut the phone off.
Still, there’s Spiers. There’s Ted. And there’s a few new episodes of Hot Ones. Maybe I should just get rid of my phone.
