Yorkie Stoddard was my most recent friend, but I’m not sure she counts in the real world. Listen to me, “in the real world.” Or should I say IRL. Like reality matters. The same folks who use such initialisms believe their online lives are the only ones that mean anything. What I’m saying is she may not count because she’s a dog.
Yeah, I was friends with a dog. Was, because Yorkie passed away today. Went over the rainbow bridge, her status said. I’m guessing her owner posted that, unless Yorkie posted it from the other side of that there bridge.
Yes, I know dogs can’t post; I’m ninety-eight, not senile. Well, I just might be, friending a dog and all that. But I looked forward to seeing her pictures, her reels, her testimonials for Farmer’s Dog and Dog is Human and how they both made her life and coat so much better. Almost made me want to get a dog of my own, but why saddle myself with all that poop clean-up and vet expenses when I can just sit on my couch and chat with Yorkie? She even wished me a happy birthday this year. Every year since we became friends. I’m going to miss her birthday wishes. There’s no one to wish me a happy birthday anymore, not now with Yorkie gone. Because Yorkie was my last friend.
At my highest point I had one hundred and seventy-three friends. That was almost twenty years ago, when this Facebook thing started. A friend of mine—IRL, just so you don’t get confused—got me started when we were on the beach in Clearwater. Her grandkids were in this online group where they could share pictures and let each other know what they were doing and who they were dating.
“Like a newsletter, but better,” she said. “I’m talking to people from grade school, high school. Even ex-boyfriends. Even me and Peter Frampton are friends. It’s a trip.” I didn’t think that was a trip I wanted to take, but she said she would sign me up for an account and set up my page.
“You never have to go on it if you don’t want. But trust me; you’ll want. You’ll get addicted. You can play games on there, find a boyfriend.”
Now, I was in my eighties when all this started, widowed for the past ten years, and I wasn’t really looking to wash someone else’s socks. “You don’t wash a Facebook boyfriend’s socks,” she said wearily, like I’d said the most ridiculous thing. “You don’t ever have to meet him. He doesn’t have to live in the same state as you, or even country. You can chat in your pajamas; he’ll never know.”
I wasn’t sold; but I’ll admit, it sure was fun taking all those pictures that week to upload onto my page. I felt like a jet-setting model, posing on my beach towel, on the hotel balcony, with a fruity cocktail. We took dozens of shots from all different angles, only using the ones that I looked best in. I took pictures of sunsets and what I was about to eat and cute things in stores I wanted to buy and the cover of the book I was reading.
“Take a picture of that,” she said, pointing at the bidet, so I did.
She created my page for me; made me look real interesting, like I was somebody you’d want to know, somebody I’d want to be. She became my very first Facebook friend; within a week, I had fifty more. Some of them I’d never even heard of before. But they requested my friendship, so I said yes.
My friend was right about finding boyfriends. I had a couple over the years, a few who love-bombed me (I’m keen on the modern parlance) and then asked for money or gift cards. I never sent them anything, not even a Christmas card, and they dropped off, realizing I wasn’t the kind to put out. Never gave away the goods IRL, mind you, not to anyone but my husband. So, I wasn’t about to be anyone’s virtual whore either.
As luck would have it, or whatever karmic message you want to ascribe it to, the friend that got me started on Facebook was my first Facebook friend to pass away. I found out about it that way, too. No phone call from one of her family members; didn’t read it in the obits. I saw it in my newsfeed, a post from her daughter, tagging Gloria Spechler Newton, notifying anyone who needed, wanted, scrolled to see it, her mother had died peacefully of natural causes two weeks ago.
I cried. Gloria had been a good friend, or so I thought even if her family didn’t. I sent a mass card to her daughter, shared a memory in the comments and moved on.
It was all downhill from there. Seemed every time I went on Facebook another one of my friends had passed away. Before I knew it, I had more dead friends than live ones. The first time I counted, I was stunned by the number; only thirty-seven remained of one hundred and seventy-three. Was I really about to be left behind by all my friends?
So, I had to make it a game. How else to deal with all that loss? Every time someone passed, I unfriended them. It was easier to keep track that way and also, who needed to see all those death anniversary and Facebook memory notices? Although some of the ones I unfriended were suggested as friends by the stupid logarithm. Hello, Mark Zuckerberg; Chandler Forsyth and Mickie Stephens are dead.
Then last year, after Walter Frickler had a heart attack, it was just me and Yorkie. I never thought she would go first, but lucky me, there you have it, I won.
I am the last Facebook standing.
Rachel Remick resides in Tampa where she writes and walks dogs. Her stories have previously been published in several magazines, among them Rosebud, Bluestem, and the Chicken Soup for The Soul series of books.
