‘Pack Your Stuff and Get Yourself Gone Dave’, or: Justice In a World of Facebook Likes

Listen we've all been 14, we've all watched Donnie Darko, we've all thought that bit where Drew Barrymore really slowly writes 'CELLAR DOOR' on a blackboard is really important, we all think linguistic beauty is a deeply underrated art, that certain combinations of words and phrases can tickle the synapses in so satisfying a way, that they can ding like a bell, pull you in on a heartstring and yank you back out again with a snap, we all know this, we know. So, extremely related, take a sip of this one:

To Facebook, now, where justice happens. There is this new thing on Facebook where people overhear things in car parks or see minor driving infractions or – and this is the worst one – thank and/or lambast people for something they have done, like they have left a heartwarming note along with a tip or they have been really patient regarding their loud child, or something like that, or they have been silently judgey on a train, and they always start with the word "Dear," these public proclamations of upper path-taking, they always start like, "Dear lady with the cashmere dress who thought my boy shitting himself was rude: he actually has a very rare shitting himself disease, actually!", they always start like that. There's also a thing on Facebook for bored guys going viral with unsubstantiated stories about going to Syria by accident or overhearing a conversation when not one of the three main players have come forward and claimed it is legitimate, but— no, I got nothing. Fundamentally Facebook is a shitshow. Anyway, David:

Dave's not having a great day, I think we can all agree on that, but probably exacerbated by the fact that some dude in a petrol station called Stevie Wilcock has decided to process his pain into a viral Facebook post, the latest example of Shareable Facebook Justice (S.F.J.) to take over the burgeoning social media platform. To date the post has 21,000 likes and 7,000 shares but I don't care about likes and shares, I care about questions, of which I have a few:

i. I mean I think it's fair to say this girl is having possibly the bleakest affair ever, I mean I don't think that's unfair to say, I mean she's meeting for a fuck at the Costa Coffee machine in Chester Shell, which is hardly exactly a bouquet worth of rose petals on a hotel bedsheet; and you have to look at the dude in this situation, also, I mean truly, if I were going to have an affair with someone's wife and/or girlfriend and they bought be a scalding hot £1.20 coffee and tried to tug me off in a 55-plate Fiesta then I think even I – a low and debased man – would exit the vehicle and say, 'thank you, madame, for the coffee machine latte and the attempt at digital congress, but this wasn't really worth taking a day off work for, was it?'

ii. If it turns out that yes, this untameable cheatress is in fact cheating on Dave, then why does Dave have to be the one to leave his house in this post-justice universe a man at the petrol station has created? I mean, surely, the last line should say, 'pack up her stuff and get yourself gone, Dave'? I mean—

iii. I mean, actually, while we're at it, why is Stevie Wilcock getting involved at all? Peek through the cracks in this Facebook post and you're seeing a lot of unexpressed frustration. You've got your boy Stevie Wilcock, silently queueing to pay for his petrol, flirting with the idea of a Picnic, flicking through an Autotrader, waiting in line for his coffee machine coffee, and then he overhears some gossip, and then: then why is he getting involved? Why is it that the hand of justice has taken the shape of a 22-year-old builder queueing in a Shell in Chester? Why is he the only man who can mop up this horrible mess?

iv. And then I think there are some even more urgent questions, notably: what is it that has been going on in Stevie Wilcock's life that makes him think cheating is so immoral a crime that it must be reported to the greater good in the pursuit of Dave, a man he is never going to meet, having an immediately more and then long term slightly less stressful life? Something, something happened back there. Something warped his worldview on cheaters and cheatees. Essentially: who hurt you, Stevie Wilcock? What did they do to break your heart?

v. Dave at the window, Dave at the door. What of Dave? Dave's looking at his watch. He read the viral Facebook post, they all did. They shared it at work. 'Sounds like your Shan!' they joked. But then: it did sound like his Shan. Maybe it was Shan's Fiesta. Can't be. Was she wearing blue this morning? He didn't notice. But then he hasn't been noticing a lot of things, lately, has he. She's been going to the gym again, getting back in shape. He's just morphing into the sofa. She got her hair done, nice, like the old days, short little bob and blonder, and he didn't say anything even though he could tell she was proud. His stomach feels hollow in a way he can never fill. She's not been texting as much, they both haven't. Today she's been basically silent. The clock ticks. It can't be Shan, can it? I mean yes, they've been on rocky ground – well not so much rocky ground as mediocre ground, like they've not even had the passion to argue let alone fuck, I mean I suppose he was working all those long hours but then they cut back a bit, but then he had a good thing going with that guy at darts, lots of nights out, forgot to invite Shan, she'd never come anyway, she hates that pub. I mean they still kissed and cuddled, sometimes. But it can't— no, the hollowness is growing, gnawing now, painful. God, she's everything. He almost sobs. God she's fucking everything to me, that woman, and I never tell her. No, she wouldn't. They still have good times, don't they? They watched that film. She keeps wanting to go on holiday but we both know we can't afford to go on holiday. Was it a skirt, she was wearing, this morning, or was it trousers? He barely remembers what he said to her. He's been on night shifts and she works like normal, in the morning he's basically a husk, all grunts. He used to get in and make her breakfast but now he just doesn't, he's too tired, she never wants it, has egg and toast at the gym. She has been working late, a lot, but that audit's up, isn't it, it's been a long audit. It can't be. The clock ticks again. How long has he been here, now, Sky News on mute, waiting, trying not to fall apart. Oh. Oh God. Here's her now. God. Don't open the door. Don't open the door. Don't open the door. My heart can't take the truth—

Anyway I think we've all learned some lessons here, namely i. if you overhear people's dirty laundry you can probably get five to seven thousand likes about it sharing that information on Facebook, which, if Facebook likes were currency, that would be great, but they're not, so ii. if you're having an affair, don't fucking blab about it in the Shell in Chester, because Stevie Wilcock is a grass and iii. Sorry Dave, I hope you've got some good mates around you who are going to console you and buy you lots of beers, because your Fiesta driving wife/girlfriend and Stevie Wilcock have conspired to make your weekend fucking miserable and possibly the rest of your life, too. You know what they say, though. You know what they say. Pack your stuff and get yourself gone.

@joelgolby

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