The following story is fiction and was the first I ever submitted for
publication, its was soundly rejected...............................
It wasn’t the first time I’ve ever been asked that question, but at this
seemingly eternal second my mind began playing ostrich by burying
any speech function I had deep into the gray matter of my past.
I never have really thought much about why I tell lies. I have always
figured that most men are gifted, or cursed depending upon one’s
moral codes in the truthfulness arena. Some tell the truth always, and I
think those are the one’s we end up seeing as they argue with
themselves about whether the voices really meant it. I would believe
that since we, as a whole are still repopulating our planet that the
majority of men do lie, regularly. It is a survival skill that I believe is
past from generation to generation. I am not making this stuff up
when I say that, but I am also not able to point you towards proof. As
far as my own lying goes I have found it to be a very covenant method
of staying alive. What I mean is that some lies were created to keep me
out of jail, divorce court or from that line at the local Unemployment
Department that always seemed to have such an above average
number of unretained people all clustered together in such close
proximity. This is not a happy place and I want to do everything I can
to not make the lines bigger for those who suffer there. Most of my lies
have just been your run of the mill, standard white lies. There have
been a mix of a few half-truths, and some quarter half-truths, but my
stories have never killed or harmed anyone that I liked. I first started
by telling the easy ones, and then later I worked up to the creative
ones that I could formulate at 3:00 in the morning after being woken
up out a very satisfying deep sleep. Say, perhaps by a woman asking
me if I love her, or quite possibly questioning me on just whose panties
these were now twirling from her finger. Sometimes I lie because the
truth seems so bland, and my version is much more vivid. Sometimes
my lies became truth, and that is kind of strange but as long as I am
not affected why fight it. White lies live inside my head, and they
bloomed and have reached a state where no one can tell lie from fact
anymore. It is an art form to be able to convince an Eskimo to buy the
extra ice trays with his new refrigerator.
I can remember the very day that I learned in school that not only was
it bad to lie, but that it was very very bad. I often wondered how much
more the two verys might add to a punishment, but I never asked
anyone who ever found out. My third grade teacher had attempted to
explain to her wide assortment of young minds that once you told your
first lie that you then had to remember who, and what you had told
someone. I soon found it was much better for me to make up an even
bigger whopper when confronted with a past; telling of fabrication
then admitting I had lied. While some had nodded in agreement with
that teacher, and others begin breaking down, even weeping, I can
remember thinking, so, we’re talking what, two sets of memory books
here? Please understand that up until that very moment, I had never
knowingly told a lie.
I was a good kid growing up, and I did what I was told. I understood
that death was a socially accepted punishment for bad children. Many
of my friends had been sent away to “live with Grandma.” I never did
bad things, because I also knew that if I did, someone else’s parent
could jump out and catch me doing stuff when my folks weren’t
around. They could accuse a kid of anything remotely resembling a
crime. Adults had it down. They ran a tight ship and we children rowed.
They watched each other’s backs, and they could, according to some
ancient code of parenting, chew your butt until your Mom or Dad
wondered onto the scene.
I spent the rest of that day staring off into my A.D.D. distance, soaking
up the possibilities of just what this exciting new understanding held. I
knew that from this moment on, the boring existence of those past 8
years of my life wouldn’t be repeated. I saw flashing images of a
potential life on the run. Spent lying to get all my needs met. Sort of
like running with scissors and pinning the blame on some sap all
rushed into my mind. It was as if there was a dance of good and evil
battling, all taking place inside me with a polka band soundtrack. I saw
the plus side of both leg and wool pulling, and that made me feel like I
might be able to make it through not only 3rd grade, but through life
itself.
I spend the rest of my life honing those skills. I practiced them until my
timing was flawless. I could make up stuff effortlessly on the spot.
Stories were told even when my neck wasn’t out on some line, they
just popped out, and my lips were powerless from my imagination. My
reputation as a man who never lost a battle of words grew. My own
Mother believed me when I concocted the story of my adoption. Life
was like an abundant feast from where I could dine and drink from the
nectars of the gullible that I encountered each day. Words became my
sword, and my swift use of it ended any fight before cuffs could be
rolled. Those whose paths I crossed accepted my elephants as mere
decoration in my living room. My naked kings paraded freely with no
willing accusers, and this time would be no different. I took an
undetectable breath, turned towards her, and looking her straight in
the eye, and said, “No, you are not fat.” I then turned my head and
watched as the little boy in my mind began to run with his scissors,
laughing and jumping on the good furniture.
I am not proud of what I had to do to survive, but survive I have. I
know what my inner voices mean, their just never very true.
