When I was younger, I assumed that having an imaginary friend must be fun: Everyone had one. This is the same logic that leads many people to buy Silly Bandz or try heroin or wear those ridiculous sock/flipper/shoe things with the separated toes that aren't acceptable footwear at all.
Those people, though, would be wrong. Like most fads, imaginary friends just aren't for everyone. When all my nursery classmates were playing with their made−up playmates, I tried to think one up, too. I even went as far as telling everyone how awesome she was and describing all the adventurous things we did together. But it was all a sham. Sarah didn't exist, nor was she very much fun. Because I, like everyone else, knew that Sarah, nice as she was, was a fraud.
Later on in life, though, I had an epiphany. It is impossible that I was the only member of my nursery class who did not suffer from hallucinations. Yes, they were a little weird; the boys too often smelled like poop, and the girls had an unyielding inability to learn to build block towers with any architectural stability to them. But still. It was impossible that any of them believed in their Joanna's or Princess Samantha's any more than I believed in my Sarah. Imaginary friends must have been about something more than companionship; they must have been about performing.
I posed this theory to my sister and suggested we try and do imaginary friends over again, the right way. She agreed, for some reason, and so, from our experiences, we devised a four−step instructional for anyone who'd like to do the same.
Step one: Choose a name. Franklin. Feel free to get more creative.
Step two: Find people to convince to believe in your imaginary friend or at least to be confused by him. This was not difficult as we were in Manhattan, where people are usually either crazy or way too interested in other people's lives or both.
We started small. Yelled at people who bumped into Franklin. Linked arms with Franklin. Held the door for Franklin. Waved to Franklin. Had conversations about other people in front of those people with Franklin. Laughed at things Franklin told us. Bought Franklin an extra drink and saved him a seat at Starbucks. Notice how I'm saying Franklin's name a lot. Especially when interacting with strangers, make sure to call your friend by his or her name. This both allows strangers to get invested and increases the amount of deranged they'll think you are. Preferably, point to your friend while doing so.
Step three: Use a metonymical signifier for your friend. Like a pair of shoes. Attention paid to our interactions with Franklin increased significantly when we incorporated a visual. We set down Franklin's shoes everywhere we went so that it was clear we were talking to the body emanating from them. With a visual introduced, an imaginary friend is able to participate in much more than just conversations and meals. Franklin, for example, went rock climbing, see−sawed and rode the Central Park carousel, which works nicely when you have to tell a child she can't sit there because Franklin (pointing, of course) already is.
Step four: Document your adventures. In addition to immortalizing our memories with Franklin, this really increased audience participation. Between activities, we stopped to ask passersby to take a picture of the three of us. Then we'd review the pictures with Franklin and, every so often, run after the photographer and ask her to take another because Franklin's eyes were closed. Sometimes Franklin also requested to take pictures WITH strangers.
I have to give credit to my nursery classmates. Having an imaginary friend is terrific. Perhaps they don't make good confidantes or playmates, but they can certainly be a good entryway into the world of performance art. Who knows? Maybe there's even some merit to heroin and those "shoes."
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