One of the reasons that I keep using Facebook, aside from it being the easiest path of connection to my family and friends, is that I play Scrabble through it. Now, I’m not great at Scrabble, as I’m not great at most things, but I feel that it gives me a bit more cognitive stimulation than Solitare or any of the iterations of Candy Crush, so I keep at it. Typically, I play with random Facebook folks, but every now and again, I’ll play against the same person for a few different games over the course of a couple weeks.
And then, there’s the case of Carl E. N. to consider.
Now, I wouldn’t call myself a social player, in that I don’t chat with my opponents. (I did here and there back in the day when I first started playing, but after a few bad actors — boring obscenities, puzzling statements, a couple dudes talking shit like they were playing for their varsity letter in Scrabble — I cut that shit out.) And after a couple consecutive games with the same person, I’ll tap out or they will, moving on to the next fish in the digital sea. But for the better part of this year, Carl E. N. and I have played a couple games per week without fail and without chatter.
Over the dozens of games I’ve played with Carl E. N., he’s won exactly one game. And in the rest of the games, Carl E. N. has struggled a little or a lot. But he keeps playing, win or lose, week in and week out. That is, until this past week. You see, Carl E. N. hasn’t taken his turn in over five days, which has never happened in our Scrabble time together. And the worst thing is that I can’t check on him to see if he’s okay, as we’ve never shared a conversation. All I know about him is his screen name and his photo, grainy and small, an older white man smiling with the look of someone who is of a kind nature.
It’s yet another example of the uncanny nature of the internet, where you could play a game with someone for months on end and never know anything about that person, other than the fact that the person is as part of your daily experience as the sunrise and a balanced breakfast and an afternoon yawn, and as comforting as all of those and more. So if you’re out there, Carl E. N., please come back to the Scrabble board, or at least let me know that you’re still around, perhaps finding something to do in life that’s richer than moving letter tiles on a computer screen.
And then, there’s the case of Carl E. N. to consider.
Now, I wouldn’t call myself a social player, in that I don’t chat with my opponents. (I did here and there back in the day when I first started playing, but after a few bad actors — boring obscenities, puzzling statements, a couple dudes talking shit like they were playing for their varsity letter in Scrabble — I cut that shit out.) And after a couple consecutive games with the same person, I’ll tap out or they will, moving on to the next fish in the digital sea. But for the better part of this year, Carl E. N. and I have played a couple games per week without fail and without chatter.
Over the dozens of games I’ve played with Carl E. N., he’s won exactly one game. And in the rest of the games, Carl E. N. has struggled a little or a lot. But he keeps playing, win or lose, week in and week out. That is, until this past week. You see, Carl E. N. hasn’t taken his turn in over five days, which has never happened in our Scrabble time together. And the worst thing is that I can’t check on him to see if he’s okay, as we’ve never shared a conversation. All I know about him is his screen name and his photo, grainy and small, an older white man smiling with the look of someone who is of a kind nature.
It’s yet another example of the uncanny nature of the internet, where you could play a game with someone for months on end and never know anything about that person, other than the fact that the person is as part of your daily experience as the sunrise and a balanced breakfast and an afternoon yawn, and as comforting as all of those and more. So if you’re out there, Carl E. N., please come back to the Scrabble board, or at least let me know that you’re still around, perhaps finding something to do in life that’s richer than moving letter tiles on a computer screen.
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