Some years ago, a man standing in a corner gesticulating, talking to himself would have been bizarre. He would have drawn glances. People would have commented, discreetly, behind their hands. A touch of judgement: “Something’s not quite right there. I’m sure.” Or, mild alarm mixed with curiosity: “What’s he on about, I wonder?” Or, even, sympathetically brief: “Poor chap.”
Some years ago, if a person standing by himself said something out aloud, as one passed within earshot, one was liable to stop and even contemplate a reply. For example: “Want to meet up for dinner tonight?” As my friend Barney says, back in the day he himself has unwittingly responded to such queries before realising to his embarrassment that they were not directed at him in the first place.
Today, it’s a most commonplace occurrence — the solo hand-waving speaker. You see them here, you see them there, you see them almost everywhere ... as someone once said. Technology allows us, at the press of a button or two, to engage with someone miles away ... talk to them, even look at them. It’s hardly surprising, therefore, that nearly everybody on the train is “head down” looking at their mobile screens, or, additionally, both looking at their screens and chattering away into a mouthpiece.
All by themselves ... alone, and yet not alone. Some years ago, you’d sit on the train and either travel in silence (reading a book, unravelling a crossword) or strike up a conversation with the person seated beside you. Friendship with a stranger over a few kilometres.
Conversations beginning with, “I am a clothes importer,” and ending, “You must visit my store. Nice talking with you.” In between, the listener learned a bit about India and Darjeeling where the best tea is grown, and Dubai, the land of heat and many wonders; and then the listener divulged a bit about themselves ... China (which is now clothing virtually the whole of Australia), specifically Hong Kong ... then the word Hong Kong strikes a common chord ... “Have you heard of the Gurkhas?” This in turn followed by a look of amazement: “You have Gurkhas in India?”
“Sure, a few, but I worked in Darjeeling. There are a lot of them over there.
“My best friend, in fact my contact person back in Hong Kong, is a Gurkha lady, her family is still in Nepal.”
And so on ... suddenly the world is made smaller. The Six Degrees of Separation — the theory that everyone or everything is six or fewer steps away — is holding true.
Today, a variation on what is politic prevails. It isn’t polite, in any case, to break in and talk to someone who is already on the phone to someone else. Your own desire to converse is placed on hold. You sit, instead, and listen (it cannot be called eavesdropping, fortunately, for this situation cannot be helped) and in this way, you become one person removed in a conversation ... a third person if you wish in a two-way dialogue, listening to a one-way discourse and piecing together, like a detective who doesn’t really want the job, what must probably be said on the other end of the line, what must the other person look like and so on. “Take the frozen plastic container out of the freezer.” “No, not the one with the blue lid.” “Now don’t fuss, Garry, you cannot eat meat every day.” “No, you’re not to buy any more chicken wings from KFC using my name.” “Your teacher will not say you’re getting rings under your eyes because you’re not eating enough meat, Garry. You should try to go to bed earlier instead, try getting some more sleep.”
And so on ... You sit and wonder at how close we all are and yet how, via technology, so incredibly removed as well. Distance enables us now to reach much farther. In doing so we miss out on reaching out to those closer. It’s the paradox of the changing world.
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
