Friendships fade with college

Homecoming is not so easy a thing to do. But I like to do it; I look forward to it; I count the days near the end or middle of each term. The pleasure of going home for break is not just that of letting off steam and eating home-cooked meals. Thanksgiving Break is a much needed respite from the seemingly endless work of the marathon fall term, but relaxation isn't all one sees when one envisions Holidays. We don't go home thinking only of bathtubs and slumbers until 2 p.m.—of course it's nice to rest at home with family. But we often go home to see a glimpse of the friends whose usual appearance is a flickering Instant Messenger icon. We go home to make sure they're still real.

Online conversations with friends from yesteryear start out pretty well. At the beginning of the fall term, right after the rekindled friendships of the summer reunions, you and your old cronies have a good deal to talk about. Hope for the upcoming school year; running gags that were revived over the summer; new jokes and stories that were born in the intense and concentrated spans of summertime cavorting—these make up the bread-and-butter of the conversations at the start of the year. Over time, however, I snuggle back into my individual life at college, separate from the high school friends I played Dungeons and Dragons with. (I am not ashamed of such fine habits.) There is definitely a zero-sum relationship between one's friends in the flesh, in the here-and-now, and the phantom personalities that litter your computer screen. The only "flesh" you can speak of, when thinking about high school friends, is the Buddy Icon that pops up every once in a while. Soon I forget what my old pallies looked like in reality—instead, when I see a cartoon clown urinating on a flower, I think of Luke Bienvenu from back home. Ah, that Luke! But even then the online conversations dwindle.

The stories born in the summer seem more like recapitulation than anything fun and original. No more running gags, just stupid gags. No more bad puns or biting sarcasm—everyone's "grown beyond that" now. Instead we get the usual talk about how stressful (or relaxedly boring) everyone's school is. Aided by distance and the coldness of a Messenger Box, we all become too cool for one another. Old friendships get all the baggage and confusion that come with dreaded long-distance relationships—but this time without the benefit of potential nookie. For some, nookie provides a much-needed focus. And when you do go home for break, you usually get a mouthful of awkwardness. A typical conversation during a reunion of two chums over coffee: Me: So, how's classes?

Luke: Boring and stupid.

Me: Uh-huh. That's nice.

<Long awkward pause>

Me: You grew your hair out really

long, I see.

Luke: You're a real genius.

<Long awkward pause>

Me: How's Justin doing?

Luke: Same as normal, but he's mel- lowed out a bit.

Me: That's good. Seeing anyone?

Luke: Some stripper. But let's not talk about that.

Me: We won't talk about that. <Pause> Check, please.

The usual gaps in our online messaging obscure the long and wrenching pauses we come across in real life conversations. We expect to have our friends engaged in various other tasks when we IM them—they could be web-surfing, doing homework, or talking with other, better friends. We are often doing the same thing. But when we see up front those same awkward pauses, our conversations grind to a halt. We console ourselves with the thought that they were busy doing other things online, when in truth we simply had nothing to talk about. Talking with old friends this past Thanksgiving caused two realizations to dawn upon me: some of my old friends weren't very friendly anymore, and they just seemed plain old.

During the deathly-still interludes between short questions and even shorter replies, all I could do was stare at my coffee—and hope for someone to take up the slack and say something interesting. But usually that hope goes unfulfilled, and all we have are the memories that are too good to be rehashed and the arguments too sore to be reopened. Every break I rest half-content that I did what an old friend is supposed to do. I invited them to coffee. I kept in touch. I remained merely cordial.

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