The alone ranger

Does being by yourself make you a loser?

by Dan Tobin

It wasn't so long ago that i almost missed good will hunting. The buzz was great -- critics were impressed with the writing, locals were impressed with the Boston accents. Me, I'd stumbled upon the filming in Harvard Square, where we'd been told it was the new Minnie Driver movie. And I really wanted to see this new Minnie Driver movie. Maybe there would be other people in it, too.

But I couldn't go, because my friends had already seen it. And my girlfriend had seen it. Even my mom had seen it. ("Why can't you be more like Matt and Ben?") There was nobody to see it with, and thus no movie. So I resigned myself to missing the most talked-about depiction of Boston since Sam Malone closed up shop. Weeks later, a friend mysteriously emerged who hadn't yet seen Good Will Hunting, and my quest reached an anticlimactic end. Minnie Driver's Boston accent was terrible.

Back then, going to a movie alone was just not an option. I viewed it as vaguely akin to sending yourself a birthday card. Since that time, though, I've come to realize that doing things in public without friends is not the same as having no friends. Being alone is not inherently pathetic. Let's not forget, Garbo was no loser.

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I understand the stigma attached to solitude. Two years ago, i wrote a column about waiting for a friend at a bar, convinced that everyone was pegging me as a loser for sitting by myself. In writing, I could admit that this was insecurity on my part. I could admit it was silly. But in real life, I wasn't quite ready to move on. Solitude equaled loneliness, and I was a hip-hop-happening guy, not some loser with no friends!

Then I relocated to Los Angeles and became a loser with no friends. I'd moved in with a high-school bud and started hanging with his crowd, but once the newness wore off I realized they were awful. I still hadn't met too many people, so the choice was them or nothing.

It wasn't easy choosing nothing. But between working, commuting, sleeping, eating, and curing cancer, my days are pretty full. I feel I've earned the right to be stingy with my free time. If I'm happier alone, why hang around with others just to look cool? Nobody in the bar actually thinks I'm a loser. Until I sell a million-dollar screenplay, they won't even notice I'm in the bar.

Choosing to be antisocial can be liberating. I'd love to give some glib, dreamy spiel about clearing my head of thought, solving deep philosophical dilemmas, and reaching a more transcendent reality. Really, though, I like not having to talk. Not having to pay attention to someone else. I don't have to be witty or coherent -- I don't even need to brush my teeth. It's all about me.

One day I was so deeply solitary (damn Behind the Music marathons) that it wasn't until nightfall that I realized I hadn't been around a real person all day. I needed human contact, although I still didn't feel like being social. I vanted to be alone. But with other people around. So I grabbed a magazine and headed out to a coffeehouse, where everyone reads, writes, studies, or contemplates solo.

I used to choose coffeehouse reading material carefully, secretly hoping it would trigger a conversation. Maybe a gorgeous young starlet would be impressed to find someone in Los Angeles reading Hemingway. Some big-shot film producer would be excited to find a fellow New Yorker subscriber. Or someone would ask if the new Jonathan Ames book was as good as the last and we'd strike up a friendship that would free me from having to come to coffeehouses by myself.

That's when I treated solitude as a ruse, a passive-aggressive way to meet people. Put more simply, that's when I was an idiot. Now I'm happy to sit in the corner, working through a crossword, nibbling on an overpriced muffin. Content. Everyone's alone, together. It's like riding the T, where even if you don't talk to anyone, there's something nice about knowing you could.

Then a guy at the couch nearby tried to engage me in conversation, and I realized how annoying I must have been on the T.

"Hey, did you go to Tufts?"

"Uh . . . yeah." My Tufts hat wasn't supposed to be a conversation-starter; I just had messy hair. I'd come here to drink my $4 latte and read about George W.'s smirk.

"Did you know this guy so-and-so at Tufts?"

"Red hair?"

"Yeah."

"I think we had a class together." I knew so-and-so. I hated him.

"Yeah, he's a good friend of mine." I felt better knowing I now had an excuse not to talk to this guy. If I didn't like his good friend so-and-so, I probably wouldn't like him. This was better than my previous reason, which was that I was being antisocial. I turned back to my magazine. "We were in a band together."

"Cool," I replied, reading the same sentence for the fourth time. I felt bad blowing this guy off, but I still vanted to be alone. It wasn't my fault he was still playing my old passive-aggressive game. Minus the passive part.

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I sometimes fear becoming a hermit. Is it right not even asking people to movies anymore? Should I really have snubbed so-and-so's bandmate? Am I becoming crotchety and misanthropic?

Of course, just asking these questions shows how much further I have to go. Learning to enjoy being alone is a side effect of growing up, getting over myself, no longer caring what others think of me. I guess I still suspect that the people in the bar notice me.

But there's really more at stake than my rep. Let's not forget: choosing to be alone is empowering, but involuntary solitude is still lonely. Not long ago I took a two-week cross-country road trip with my nerdy ex-roommate. He flew home just before it ended, and I had two days alone. I liked being in complete control of the trip, but driving through the Petrified Forest wasn't as much fun as it would have been with Scott. I wanted someone to turn to and say, "Hey, that's pretty cool," just to hear a grunt of agreement, just to know someone was there. Just not to be alone.

So solitude isn't a sworn lifestyle change. I still want company at national parks. It would be nice for concerts, too. But I don't need a right-hand man watching a movie. And I do all right adding cream without outside assistance. And when I'm back in Boston, I'll ride the T in silence, happily reading my pretentious magazine, quietly content to be all alone on a packed B Line train. Alone, but not lonely.

Only Dan Tobin can be reached at dantobin@juno.com.

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