I was in an office park on another afternoon exploration of Union City, CA, rollerblading around a company’s loading area, when I noticed a truck had its back doors open. I didn’t see anyone nearby, so, as I was increasingly apt to do at that age, I transgressed, climbing into the truck. There wasn’t much to see, just a lot of nondescript packages ready to be sent out. As I poked around, feeling the rush of being a bad boy, I thought I heard someone. I crouched down and froze, listening, waiting. The doors of the truck slammed shut. Then, moments later, the engine rumbled to a start. Not wanting to give myself away, I made no attempt to alert the driver to my presence, thinking some sort of opening to escape would present itself. The truck picked up speed. I imagined that as soon as it came to a stoplight, I could open the doors. But I didn’t move, too afraid that something could go wrong and I’d hurt myself or that, I don’t know, I’d be held responsible for any lost or damaged packages that tumbled out after me or that I’d cause a traffic accident. The only other choice was to sit there until the ride was finished. Ten, twenty minutes went by. Ended up in Oakland.
This has been a version of a lie I
used to tell. It wasn’t a terrible lie: there was a grain of truth. I really
would ride around in my rollerblades, exploring the hidden corners of Union
City, including an office park. Sometimes I even courted trouble. The skeptical,
though, might have (correctly, in this instance) winced at the outlandishness
of my adventure. I was never pressed for more details but with every
repetition, my discomfort grew: sooner or later I’d be found out and summarily pantsed,
metaphorically and literally, maybe—not unheard of in the realm of kid justice—for
a story I eventually tired of. In later teen years, I remember at least
once someone uttering those fearsome words to me after hearing one of my
made-up stories, something along the lines of: I don’t believe you. And
occasionally I would speak to or be in earshot of a kid who was clearly lying
in the same way and feel embarrassed for him or her. The kid who could always
conveniently top everyone else’s story. The new kid who sought to establish her
reputation by alleging that her mom dated famous musicians. The classic: the
kid who got laid in a distant land one summer, where none of his listeners had
ever been or would ever go. Finally, in my senior year of high school, I was
asked to repeat the delivery truck story for someone who hadn’t heard it and I
immediately fessed up: “That was a lie.” I was high at the time. Getting high,
for me, intensified whatever I was feeling, so what this request likely turned
up the dial on was a sense of fraudulence and self-loathing, catalyzing honesty.
Disappointing my listeners and doing harm to my own legend hardly stung. And
what a relief! How much less stressful life is when you don’t spend it lying
and then worrying about your lies and running from scrutiny and sputtering to
prop up lies! From that day forward my legend has been built on the unmatched
honesty and purity of a secular saint.
I’d been playing a game to see if I
could get someone to buy the lie. But, closer to the point, I wanted to seem
interesting. Then I grew up and stopped sweating it. In the years to come I
would make the connection to literature. In writing but especially in reading, one
of the greatest pleasures is what really happened: that perfect detail
or situation or character that’s powerfully, excruciatingly, hilariously real.
And, over and over, it’s proven that these can be found in the most seemingly
unremarkable lives. (Meanwhile, anyone who’s ever watched a late-night talk show has
probably been sent to bed early by the anecdotes of a world-famous guest.) It’s
a skill to forage from your life. And it’s another skill to make something of
what’s foraged for someone else’s consumption. In the sense of bypassing the work
involved, I think of the fabulist as lazy. There are no boring lives, just boring
people living them. Sometimes they take the easy way out at the risk of ignominy.
I don’t wish to devalue another
great pleasure of literature, what didn’t happen: imagination, invention, comic
exaggeration, manipulation of autobiography that isn’t underhanded. And I
suppose it’s a shame, with the advancement of research tools and surveillance
technology, that the tall tale is largely extinct. But imperfect memory is no
infallible defense. And to those who are in the habit of lying merely to
convince others that you’ve led a life you didn’t actually lead, that is
essentially underhanded: if pangs of conscience don’t torment and madden you first, assume,
no matter who you are, that one day you’ll have the eyes of the world on you
and that a scrupulous journalist or investigator or amateur sleuth will come
knocking. From there, only the most shameless self-deluded career bullshitters try
to keep up the act, through widespread mockery and scorn, through court
proceedings and prison.
…Okay, something that really did
happen: A girl invited me to hang out. I put on my new sweater, strapped on my
super cool super sexy rollerblades, and rocketed out the front door. Midway
there, I suspect it was excitement that blinded me to the signs warning that the
road ahead had just been paved. Speeding along, I suddenly came to a dead stop
and tipped forward in what felt like the blink of an eye. I had just enough
time to use my hands and forearms to break my fall. And I was stuck to the
ground. And my hands were burning, half tarred, in full view of a busy street. That’s
about how it feels to get caught in a dumb lie.
When I got there, she and another
girl kindly laundered my sweater. To no avail.
