You haven’t read my novel yet because I haven’t written it. Instead, I’ve been devoting myself to what I believe is my true calling: small talk. Discerning this, Sweetie Pie has labeled me lazy and a procrastinator, even aimless. Not so. From the day that I sat in my first barber’s chair, I’ve known that small talk was my forte. I still remember the first chat with the barber about nothing in particular. Never had I experienced anything so satisfying.

Subsequently, I found myself giving unsolicited advice and from there, it was a short step to redundancy. Sometimes I could say the same pointless thing over to people 10 times – effortlessly. I was a natural. Then came idle chitchat, which I especially liked because the pace was slower. Most people lack the skills to keep a conversation going when it’s about nothing. Not me. But I don’t think this is something you can get from a book; either you can do it or you can’t. My parents noticed when I was very young that I used more words than were necessary to express an idea. My descriptions were superfluous from the outset, sometimes accompanied by shallow laughs and empty gestures, and with time, my small talk grew smaller and smaller.

That’s not to say small talking is a gift. I don’t care how dull they are as persons, small talkers work at it. You don’t hear about the time they spend listening to taxi drivers, hairdressers, doormen, and bartenders and taking notes. To me, small talk is like yoga, a discipline you practice by plunging into the deep end, like the Chamber breakfast, the office party, an awards dinner, the dentist’s waiting room. A favorite technique of mine is to find someone at an affair with his or her back to the wall or in the corner of the room where escape can be blocked. Then I make my move.

“Hey, how about this weather?” I begin. “Swell eh? Been swell all spring. We’re lucky. Real lucky. But it was cloudy yesterday. Right before lunch. Better cloudy than rainy though, right? I’ll take cloudy every time. Except cloudy every day can get you down, too. But I hear we’re due for some rain. Just so it’s not tomorrow. I’m playing golf tomorrow. Have you noticed how some golf shoes can reduce shock?”

Notice my technique here. Before I can be interrupted, I’ve droned from weather into golf shoes. Ten minutes on golf shoes and I’ll do my double segue like this: “Couldn’t play golf yesterday, had my dental check up. Did you know that flossing is the most important weapon against plaque?”

Sometimes the person doesn’t even notice that I’ve changed subjects. I continue without even taking a breath. “My floss is shred-resistant, and it combines comfort with cleaning power.”

Now he’s looking at his watch. I’m relentless. “When do you like best to floss? Me, I like mornings. No, make that nights. Actually, it depends.”

Now I’m getting the blank stare. Here’s where I achieve sheer, unmitigated monotony. “My floss use to be mint flavored until I tried lime. Wow. Lime gives my mouth that fresh feel. You know, I wonder why floss is always white?” His eyes are glazing over. He’s leaning against the wall, nodding off. I bore in. “You’d think they’d offer us colors, wouldn’t you.”

I hear a snore. Yes! This is what it’s all about.

Sure, some of it could have been the liquor. But mostly, it’s small-talker know-how, like not allowing the listener to disengage. And knowing how to extend and extend the conversation. I talk without once permitting the intrusion of substantive subject matter into my wearisome delivery. The small-talker’s mantra: Always talk without something to say.

Truly debilitating small talk sort of settles down upon folks softly, like confetti. You never start by saying something consequential like, “Hi, I’m Fred, and I have two reasons for favoring stem cell research.” Never! Have whatever you say be vapid and pointless from the outset.

Evidence of my success: When I approach people, they head for the refrigerator or the bathroom or claw for their cell phones. I once amazed the small-talker community by incapacitating a policeman about to write me a parking ticket. I led with, “Good morning officer, did you know that the human heart beats sixteen million times a year?” I was telling him about Sweetie Pie’s new electric hair dryer when he hurried off.

This year the annual small-talker’s convention was in Benton Harbor. Among the topics were how to prevent the end of conversations, small talk at wakes, and how to talk about yourself nonstop until the room empties. My Benton Harbor experience prompted my joining Small Talk Without Borders. My first assignment will take me to a bus station in Hamburg.

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Fred Gehrung is a freelance writer who lives in the Marina. Fred has written features and humor for newspapers including the Chicago Tribune, USA Today, The Boston Globe, and The New York Times. E-mail: [email protected]