Friend Me
Symon Nikchema and Andriy Chilovek sat in an alcove of the Facebook headquarters in Skolkovo, sipping sambuca and discussing the hockey game that had just ended.
“I mean, you saw the play, right?” Andriy demanded. “You saw Thornton got slashed at by Markstrom?”
“Well, yeah,” Symon said, smirking into his bottle. He avoided Andriy’s eye, which seemed to be a good call, because that smirk really riled Andriy.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He glared at Symon.
Symon took a calculated slug and looked up. Deferential resistance, he thought. Aloud, he said, “C’mon, Andriy. Really? I mean, Markstrom had the puck.”
“So? Thornton was just doing what scorers do. He was trying to get the puck loose.”
Good, he’s getting worked up, Symon thought. A good shot of adrenaline. “Whatever, dude. Either way, rules are rules.”
Andriy slammed his glass on the table. “Got that right, Bud! Rules are rules! And Markstrom crossed the line. Slashing? Gimme a break.”
“But he never actually touched—”
“And then that flop! Man, he went down like…like a soccer player!”
Symon burst out laughing and Andriy joined in. Whoops, Symon thought. This is supposed to be an argument. Is this out of character?
Apparently Andriy didn’t mind; still laughing, he clinked glasses with Symon.
“I don’t know, man,” Symon shrugged, letting the conversation go where it would. “That Thornton dude is a fuckin’ psychopath.”
“Fuck yeeeaahh!” Andriy said, draining his bottle and slamming it onto the table again. Like best friends drinking at a sports bar, Symon smiled. Mission accomplished.
Andriy stood up. “All right, Bud. I’d better get back to work. Meet you here later?”
Symon tapped his phone screen. Nope—Andriy’s last session for the night. He swiped a few more screens—to make it look like he was only scrolling through texts—and said, “Sorry, dude. We’ve got a big project due tomorrow. Looks like the team is gonna sandlot all night.”
Andriy shrugged. “Story of my life,” he smiled.
Symon winced at the self-pity in that smile, the look of a little boy who wasn’t picked by either team. Aw, hell. Rules be damned. He said, “Hey, wanna go to a real game? This weekend? They’re playing the HC Siska again on Saturday!”
“Hah. You’re funny. I haven’t had a Saturday night off in…”
Symon nodded. Of course he wouldn’t be able to. Oh, well, it’s just as well—that’s one rule I really shouldn’t break.
“Well, gotta get back. See ya.”
They got up. Symon patted Andriy on the left shoulder. Not on the right one—Andriy had a thing about the right shoulder. Poor guy, he thought as they parted awkwardly. Works for the best social media company in the world, and starved for a human connection.
He couldn’t dwell on it at that moment, though—there was a narrative to perpetuate: the comrades were separating.
He gave Andriy a resigned smile and headed off toward the Java wing. Andriy would glance back at him once—even twice—so he needed to stay in character.
The first time they’d met was in the lunchroom at Facebook five months earlier. Symon had been waiting by himself in the corner—where, he had been briefed, Andriy usually sat. He’d studied a vid of Andriy: sallow complexion. Greasy. Prematurely thinning hair. His looks had clearly been doing him no favors socially. But even that was just window dressing, for it was Andriy’s ineptitude in hanging with others, his nerdy engineering arrogance, that drove most people off. And made it necessary for the employers to call in Symon.
They didn’t give him many instructions. “Ask him for help with the Wi-Fi—that line seems to work best,” the notes at the bottom of the contract had suggested. But nothing on how to gain his confidence—how to achieve true Bud-ism, which was the term Symon preferred over the execrable bro-mance.
1 Comment
What a wacky story!