I used to think that saying, “That’s nice” could fill the silence after any sentence or monologue you weren’t really paying attention to. Nine times out of ten, that seemed to be the case. All anyone really wanted was to have an occasional interjection to assure themselves that they had a “rapt” sounding board instead of a “disinterested daddy” (and yes, by the way, all daddies are disinterested—especially in their daughters). But it was that one time out of the ten that made me realize how parroting, “That’s nice” isn’t going to cut the mustard for some scenarios. How it can backfire in the worst possible way, and when you least expect it. As one so rarely does expect a backfire (unless, of course, they have a particularly shitty car). 

For me, that backfire occurred during one of my usual daily constitutionals. During which time I always approached the same tree for something like solace (not, as some pervs would speculate, to satisfy any dendrophilous tendencies). Because the hour of the day that I chose to do this tended to coincide with when most “normal” people were at work, I had grown accustomed to having the old sycamore to myself. Shit, it’s not as though I was going to see some elderly retired person all the way up there on the hill, climbing the bottom branches like I did. It was usually the highlight of my day, “mounting” those branches (again, not a dendrophiliac). But not on that fateful day, when I rotely uttered, “That’s nice” to the worst possible person at the worst possible moment.

As I mentioned, the time of day for my constitutionals generally gave me free rein over the area. Ample liberty to commune with nature just as Thoreau and Emerson would have recommended: in total solitude. Except, as I soon realized, I wasn’t alone. And it wasn’t just the sound of footsteps crunching on leaves that tipped me off, but the shrill yipping of not one, but two little dogs. When I turned around to see what kind, it was just as I suspected: chihuahuas. Well, one chihuahua and something else that looked a lot like said breed, but was slightly “taller” and stockier. Closer inspection of the mutt revealed that it was grayer than its “sibling.” Something the teenage or teenage-looking (it’s so hard to tell how old people are nowadays) boy that approached was sure to mention to me once he was finally ready to talk.

That didn’t yet happen as I sat perched on my tree, hoping he would take the goddamn hint and understand this isn’t the type of tree designed for more than one person to enjoy. It was so clearly a “sit on your own and reflect” tree that I found myself truly aghast at the gall of his interruption. On those rare occasions when I did see someone else in “my” spot, I always had the decency to walk away and return later when it was no longer occupied. It seemed, to me at least, an unspoken rule for “use” of that tree. But not to this ignoramus, apparently. Maybe he was as young as I thought…because only someone young could be that dense. That immune to social graces. 

His social ineptitude only worsened as he got closer, abandoning his dogs on the grass to climb up the branches above me. When I tried to do the polite thing by breaking the awkward silence and uttering a simple “hello,” I got no response in return. And I’m guessing it wasn’t because he “didn’t hear” me. No, he was just being a smug little asshole. Too fucking cool to talk to a stranger. I thought I could wait it out until he left, but he just kept fucking hanging there, dangling his legs. If I wasn’t so creeped out, I might have been concerned for his safety since, truth be told, the tree branch he sat on was high enough to cause death as opposed just A Separate Peace-style paralysis. My main concern, though, was leaving. 

As I surrendered the tree to this knave, whose name I would never learn, the older, less chihuahua-y dog bounded toward me, happily sniffing my leg and jumping on it in glee (alas, one can never take it to heart when a dog approves of your smell). The boy on the tree called out, “Char Char!” but it did nothing to stop the animal from its enthusiastic appraisal. “Char Char’s” (real name: Charlotte) sibling then trotted over to me as well, he being muzzled where “Char Char” was not.” The boy finally felt obliged to climb down the tree and shoo his pets away from me. As he did so, and we were at last face-to-face, I decided to take another risk on trying to interact with him out of my accursed commitment to social grace. I should have known by now that decorum causes nothing but pain. Hence, my pitiful attempt to relate to him by asking, “What’s your dog’s name?”

I didn’t really care what it was or which one’s name he decided to tell me. He started with “Char Char” by pointing and declaring, “That’s Charlotte. She’s the older one. You can tell by her gray hairs.” At that instant, the “young” one, whose name was Beecher, I was informed, started yipping at me, almost as though he was trying to tell me to rip off his muzzle. Of course, that wasn’t my place. Nor was it my place to put a cork in the boy’s mouth as he proceeded to unleash a torrent of words upon me after telling me the names of his capricious canines. I could scarcely understand what was happening before I realized I had opened a floodgate. This boy had clearly been looking for someone to talk to for so long and I had finally unleashed his bottled-up soliloquy. 

I didn’t really know what he was saying after a while, and it didn’t much matter. The point was, he at last had the opportunity to express himself to someone. At a certain part of the diatribe (and it had become a diatribe), he was going off about his oppressive parents. I chose to hold back my “that’s nice” while tuned in for this portion of his program. But when he started going on another few minutes about other elements of his life he seemed to be happier about, that’s when I began to chime in with my stock nod followed by: “That’s nice.” 

It was his fault, really, not mine, that I should end up responding, “That’s nice” right after he declared, “I’m thinking of committing suicide.” Because he had changed tack in the “conversation” so rapidly that I didn’t see it coming. This about-face in tone. Almost as though he was lying in wait for me to fuck up. To prove that there is no such thing as a “sympathetic ear,” let alone a sympathetic stranger. The instant I fathomed what I had said “that’s nice” to, I immediately regretted it. But it was too late—he had taken my “encouragement” as the sign he had been waiting for, promptly making a beeline back toward the tree. Before I could process what he was doing, I saw him climbing the trunk and up its branches with the seasoned professionalism of a goddamn monkey. By the time I fully apprehended what he was doing, it was too late. The splat had already transpired.

I’d like to be able to tell you I learned a hard lesson about being a better listener that day. But instead, I think what I learned was never to take a chance on trying to assert your dominance over any area just because you were there first. Better to flee the scene than to endure any awkwardness with a stranger who turns out to be on the verge of suicide.