Some people love small talk and are experts at it. Some people think small talk is from the devil and get all clammy when it’s time to pass the peace at church. I wouldn’t consider myself squarely in either camp, but if you were to ask me whether I think there’ll be small talk in heaven, I’d probably say no and then change the topic back to sports.
Small talk is so named partly because it uses small words; there’s a reason it’s not called diminutive talk. More than that, though, it’s small talk because it covers small topics: what the weather is like and whether the week was good (the latter with the implicit understanding that the answer is near yes). Small-talk topics are safe because they are unimportant to almost everyone. If somebody to whom you’re talking finds a small-talk topic important, then batten down the hatches. You have inadvertently sailed straight into deep talk, and probably also hot water.
My friend, for example, made a small-talk comment in an auto repair shop about how expensive it is to have a car. Safe enough, he figured. But the lady behind him in line said, “Isn’t that what you get in Biden’s economy?” and all of a sudden there he was, neck-deep in big talk he didn’t want. He should’ve stuck to the weather.
You might think that small talk would make for uninteresting conversation, and you might be right. But there is also a profound nobleness to good small talk, and some of my favorite people in the world are masters at it. This comes partly from cleverness, but it comes more from the ability to exude comfort. Good small talk is pleasant because it makes you feel as if you are pleasant. It puts you at ease. It’s the conversational equivalent of a painting by Bob Ross (who, in every way, was a small talk artist).
Bad small talk, on the other hand, makes you feel like you can’t be enjoyed. It’s like one of Picasso’s self portraits – no happy little clouds in sight, just wrong lines and strange colors. The worst part is that, like Picasso with his knowing stare, you retain a stark, uncomfortable awareness of yourself. But there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re trapped on the canvas.
The other day Alli and I were returning from a walk, and as we reached the apartments we ran into a group of people (almost literally, because it was dark). They were laughing about something, but everything got quiet as we came up.
“How’s it going?” one of them asked into the silence.
“Yeah!” I said enthusiastically and made sure to look him directly in the eyes. We walked past.
Thirty seconds later I realized that he had not, in fact, asked if I was Jon. I briefly entertained the idea of going back to clear things up.
But you can’t resurrect the dead – most of the time, at least – so it’s usually better to play it safe. That’s the whole danger of small talk.
