Like…

On one social network website, there’s a picture of a squirrel with its neck caught in the crook of an oak tree. It’s presumed dead by most of the audience. So far, it has 2,073 likes and has been shared 47 times.

I puff on my cigar and try to figure out what the big deal is, before concluding that this photo illustrates the importance of luck and chance.

The average viewer merely concludes that the squirrel made a gigantic leap from one tree to another. When landing on the other side, it faced the misfortune of his walnut-sized head getting stuck in a V-shaped crotch of two thick branches, choking it. But I’m not sure other viewers dwell on the probability of this happening.

I sip some bourbon and notice the ash on my Fuente . It’s the size of a thumb. Thinking about the photo, I notice I’m having real difficulties deciding whether to hit “like” or not.

There’s tradeoffs.

If I hit “like” ,my family , friends and colleagues may think that I wished for the little animal to die in such a brutal way.

And if I don’t hit like, people may think I’m making a judgment by abstaining from it– as if people know I’m even looking at the damn thing.

When I see that George Holiday liked the photo, I feel I have leverage or maybe I could conjure up a sense of friendship.

George works a few desks over from me in the office , but serves the company as an architect. I’m on the communications side of the fence. I say that I may have leverage because what if I one day get angry at George for taking my parking spot in the garage and I decide to seek revenge? I could easily start a rumor , calling George an Animal Killer , telling everyone he liked a picture of a dead animal. Worse, I could stage a protest outside the office in honor of the squirrel.

Then again, I could go ahead and “like” the photo.

If I do this, then I could pull George to the side and say, “Hey man, I’m with you on the squirrel.”

It could be a unifying experience.

Then again, if I do tell him that I also “liked” the picture, he could use that fact against me, which is to be avoided at all cost.

So what if I just said ,”Hey, man. I really wanted to like that photo too, but I just couldn’t risk it. I admire how courageous you are”?

But it’s not just the photo of the squirrel that does this to me, it’s all photos on the social networks.

Take my brother for instance.

He has 1,027 friends in one of his networks, which is great considering his personality. When he posts pics of his middle child’s birthday celebration, he gets 1,020 likes– which means 7 people don’t give it a thumbs up.

I’m one of the 7.

The fact is, his middle child is ugly and a spoiled piss pot. His nostrils are the size of his eyeballs and his gums are already receding.

Additionally , he has three fat rings around his neck that look like hair-thin necklaces. I can’t even look at him, but 1,020 people like the photo and say nice things nonetheless.

I know to abstain from “liking would have consequences. If I don’t like it , my brother will call my mom, and she’ll call me and then, within an hour, the whole family is looped into the drama until I hit the button.

Ultimately, I hit the button because my sister tells me that I’m creating a traumatic experience for my brother and his family. In fact, eight-hundred of the 1,000 + network have already noticed that I didn’t like the pic of my nephew. They all communicated that fact to my brother, which is a big , shameful deal. If the “like” button were an “acknowledge” button, I might not feel the pressure . However, I don’t think the acknowledge button will ever see the light of day.

A few nights later, I stop at my mother’s place and my brother Josh is there. At first, there’s silence and a bit of a stare down. Ever since we were kids, our general reaction to conflict is silence.

“Dad got drunk and ran over your bike.”

Silence.

” Mom slapped Marissa across the face.”

Silence, but understood . Marissa pushed all of us to our limits when we were kids. Her mouth ran non-stop, calling Josh “fat boy” and me “girlie man”. Josh and I were secretly happy when she got smacked because we’d have a few days of not being bothered by her antics.

After a few moments of ambiguous silence, I initiate the conversation.

” Hey Josh. Looks like the party was a success.”

Josh pulls a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lights up. We’re around the kitchen table where a Mexican sun dial ashtray sits between two Jack and Jill figurines. He inhales, exhales, lets the smoke curl around his face, then he wipes the air with his hands to shoo away the cloud.

” Nice of you to acknowledge it. Only took you 3 days to like the photo, girlie man.”

“Been busy,” I explain.

“Yeah, well, you know we’re friends with some of the same people. I noticed you liked a photo of Amanda within seconds of her posting it.”

In reality, he’s not wrong on this point. I did in fact like her photo. In it, she was posing with some horses in Wyoming– one of her all time dreams. And yes, admittedly, she looks as hot as when she left me at the prom.

“And?” I retorted.

“Pretty messed up that you’d like her photo before your nephew’s.”

” I see your point and get it,” I respond, “So what’s the fix?”

He doesn’t have an answer. He takes another drag and holds the smoke in for a long time. When he exhales, a river of smoke exits.

” Well, I think the fix is that I show your wife the ‘like’ and explain to her you and Amanda’s history. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve already done it.”

The chances of him actually doing something about this are slim. He’s weak. Once ,when he was in college, somebody took a dump in his laundry when it was in the washer. Instead of finding the person or being enraged, he cowered , sat on the machine, then transferred the soiled clothes to another machine when no one was looking.

“Whatever, Josh. You’re all talk. You haven’t the balls. Besides, I already told her everything.”

“Sure you did. I already met with her before coming to mom’s .”

“It is what it is,” I respond.

Looking at my watch, I feign panic as if I were late to a meeting.

“Anyways, I need to get going. Say hi to your fat frickin’ son for me, will you?”

The door slams behind me and my mother waves from the living room window.

Exiting the house, I get into my car and drive away, wondering how I’m going to feel when I get home.

On one hand, if my wife’s gone, she’s gone.

And if Amanda’s on the doorstep waiting for me, that’s another reaction.

Pushing the gas, I roll down the window, then crank up the music. I feel the cold wind for the first time since I was 17. I’ve been an adult my whole life, and have waited for this and nothing more.