© Pierre Maré,
2004 - 2007
Offbeat 122
I spent a large part of last week trying to get to grips with various elements of a new web business on the brink of profitability. The rest of the week was spent trying to deal with the crippling frustration of patchy internet access. I chucked in the towel round about late afternoon on Thursday, and decided to hit the pub in an effort to deal with the fact that I have turned myself into a work machine.
The first part of the evening went fine. The conversation was interesting and the beers went down effortlessly. It was the second part that sticks in my throat.
I decided to stay on a bit and amuse myself with my ipod after the conversation ended. I still had room for two more beers. The music of choice was The Smiths, slightly maudlin, slightly depressed with a large measure of anger at how the world distorts our being. Perfect, and the beer didn’t yet have the stale taste that tells me I have had too many and should think about paying the tab and crawling home.
Yet between the moment I managed to get the headphones unraveled and plugging them in company found me. First it was a request for a cigarette, then sensing that I was probably a soft mark, the request came for a beer. Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong person.
I turned down the request for a beer and told the person I did not want company.
Apparently that was the signal for her to loudly argue the point that not only did I want her company, but that I actually needed it. The statement that I am happily married and have a child apparently eluded the person. It was an ugly harangue, but she left after a few minutes. There is not much point in arguing with someone who has headphones in his ears and The Smiths in his head.
I can’t report on what she said to me. I wasn’t listening to her. Some of it involved the fact that she wasn’t after my money. Apparently her motives were pure. She tried to prove it by offering me beers. But at that stage the beer was beginning to taste more than a little bit sour.
And anyway, I wanted the company of the thoughts in my head, not free beer.
I don’t drink at home, with the exception of the occasional glass of wine or a beer when I have visitors. The distance between home and hedonism, or maudlin self-examination, is healthy.
Somewhere between work and play, there has to be room for an off button. In my case, it is the pub. But my off button is not labeled ‘be an extrovert’. I go to the pub either to have a quiet drink or to meet specific people, whom I know will be there.
The world, it seems, has a certain scheme in mind for the pub, a scheme into which I don’t fit. I don’t feel the need to be exciting, charming, amusing, interesting or an addition to some social butterfly’s circle of acquaintances. My role in the scheme of the pub is to prop up the bar, have a few quiet drinks and think about things. That’s all.
And taking the pub as a metaphor for the broader scheme of things, that is still my role.
Conventional wisdom has it that extroversion is a desirable attribute. But there is a rider to this. Extroversion is desirable only if you are an extrovert, not if you are an introvert. And there is a further rider to this. The world does not belong to extroverts. It needs to make place for the introverts.
Being an introvert does not mean that I have to stay at home. It just means that I want a quiet time in a pub with a few friends, preferably without strangers requesting cigarettes, beer and interesting conversation.
Sadly, it feels as if another door has closed. If I can’t go and have a quiet drink somewhere, then perhaps I should stay at home, but without the comfort of a few beers to deaden the stress, relieve the pressure and give me the moment to look at myself in a different light.
On the other hand, a pub has a specific character, and part of that character is the quiet person who sits in the corner and doesn’t talk much. And if not for the quiet patch in the corner, perhaps the noise would come to dominate everything.
Back to the archive • Previous • Next • Home
