The Friend Zone
By Eliza Billingham
The menu advertised “Truth Serum, available with or without alcohol.”
Upstairs to your right, a handwritten “Special Event” sign blocked a doorway. Sticky, blue-rimmed name tags lingered in a basket with fresh sharpies. Plastic dividers chaperoned dimly lit café tables. Women and men entered minutes before 7 p.m. to unwrap themselves from the winter chill and warm up to each other.
They did not come to find dates. They came to make friends.
Skip the Small Talk is an organization that orchestrates in-depth conversation. Each attendee pays $16.50 to flaunt societal rules for two hours and dive straight into topics like, “If you were going to become close friends with me, what would I need to know about you?”
On a Wednesday in January, Skip the Small Talk rented out the upstairs lounge of Trident Booksellers and Cafe, a bookstore and bar on Boston’s trendy Newbury Street. Tickets ran out at the door. About fifty people filled the space, ranging from recent college grads to mid-career professionals, an even split of men and women in button downs or sweatshirts. Waiters tiptoed through the private space to serve cinnamon buns, cappuccinos and the well-advertised Truth Serum cocktail.
Kathryn moved to Boston around Thanksgiving. She hoped that moving locations would spur her career change in the right direction. She was in her early thirties, a mechanical-engineer-turned-mental-health-researcher who liked stripes and tortoise shell. So far, she hadn’t met many new people due to shifting Covid protocols. She usually keeps to herself, but the pandemic forced her to reevaluate. “I’ve been missing people,” she said. “I think I need to push myself.”
The evening started with a quick PowerPoint to ease our insecurities. “Try to err of the side of sharing a little more,” the event planner said. “Take this opportunity to have a conversation you might not otherwise get to have.”
Cory has been in Boston since Christmas, after an impulsive move that landed him on a houseboat. His mother was diagnosed with cancer when he was 20. Cory took care of her for 13 years until she passed away. “I feel socially stunted,” he said. “Your twenties are when you should be exploring and spontaneous. I’m trying to recover that.”
After our first ten-minute conversation, we closed our eyes and raised our hands for a blind poll. How many of you were happy with what you shared? How many wish you shared more? How many of you were happy with what your partner shared? How many wish they had shared more?
The organizer assured us that everyone liked what their partner shared. Most wished their partner had shared more.
At the end of the evening, I sat across from Michael, a recent Northeastern grad who loved West Coast swing and missed the impromptu gatherings of college. “Did you expect to make friends this way?” I asked. “I had tempered expectations,” he said, “but I’m happy to talk.”
