In my life I have been called many things. Mostly justified, I won’t lie to you.
But, if the woman I dealt with first thing this morning (do you see a trend? Do ALL psychotic, dirt bags get up early?), I am a liar.
Don’t get me wrong. I lie every day. But, being an admitted liar, I’m sure you don’t believe that. Yet, on many days, it is true. It usually starts early. My day often starts by paraphrasing an oft quoted, yet shitty, line from a movie.
“You had me lying at hello.”
Why, honestly, would I be any other way? I have to smile at people who use my face as a placeholder for the ills of their retched lives. I’ve been blamed because their worldly belongings are in storage. Hey, Mona Bitchalot, I’m not the one who told you to go on an eight month coke and oxy bender with a Yanni cover band. I do understand that participating in such a thing would cause declines in ones lifestyle, but it’s not my fault.
Many times when I lie the person is right. I could do what I’m stating I cannot. Such as I could stay open because I do have the keys and proper entry codes. I just won’t because to be with you when I’m getting paid is torture enough. The thought of having you utter anything but your dying breath when I’m not getting paid is too much for a poor boy like me to bear.
As you can tell, most of my lies are of convenience. If I ever meet you I’m sure I’ll say it’s a pleasure. But, unless you’re buying me beers while sticking twenties in my pockets, it probably isn’t. Yet, many times a day I tell people that. And, so far in my life, I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting someone then leaving with a buzz and more money than I came with.
I guess people know I lie because even when I don’t it seems I get accused of it. I’d just finished talking to my boss about cleaning some tenants mess (I won’t frighten you with the details but be aware the unit was rented to a guy known as Smelly Guy) when this woman peeks her head around the corner and asks,
“Do you have anything to eat?” At first I think she’s offering to buy me lunch. Hello! It’s sort of a pleasure to meet you! “I’m starving and I’m starting to get light headed.”
Boy, when disappointment sets in it’s just like another day waking up.
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”
I figure this is the end of our disappointing conversation and begin to walk away when she says,
“You must have something. Even a snack.”
I stop and blink a few times. Is she saying I’m holding out on her? I look at her and my first instinct is to scream,
‘I am! I’m the mallowmar king and will not share my booty with a peon!’ Before running into the office and hunkering down with my rich and tasty friends. But, I resist that temptation as delicious as it is. I fall back to my standard repetition.
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”
The woman tsks and digs further into a pit of indignation. “You must not understand me.”
I beg to differ, Ms. Charientism, my understanding couldn’t be clearer. You, a rather obsequious woman who has issues each time you enter our portals, is calling me a liar. That, in and of itself, I will take no umbrage. But about Twinkies? Yeah, even I’m not low enough to lie about a frosty snack cake.
She goes on to explain that she is hungry, damnit, and if she is not the recipient of a tasty morsel posthaste, well, dreadful things will happen. The worst of which seems she’ll continue to talk to me.
“You must have a cookie, some candy, or something in your office.”
I explain that, unlike many of my brethren in this fine and flabby country, I don’t snack much at all. Oh sure, I’ve savored a Pop Tart; allowed myself a Devil Dog respite; even, when I was feeling especially indecorous, slurped a pint of Chunky Monkey through a crazy straw. But, at this place and time, the only things other than office related material in my desk are some notes, a couple of books, and a knife. The later of which is of most interest to me at this juncture.
“I can’t believe you have nothing to eat in your office.”
I stare at this woman for a moment while explaining that, if she were to have spent as much time moving as she had questioning my snack veracity, she would have fulfilled her appetence. It takes her a moment, I assume due to weakness, to realize we have four establishment within view that carry a voluminous array of foodstuff.
“You’re holding out on me.” She says as she begins to stomp away. “If I pass out it’ll be all your fault. I hope you’ll be able to live with yourself.” She ends as she reaches her car where her husband has been dutifully seated since this discussion commenced. She takes one last look at the snack food liar as I smile and say,
“Ma’am, I’m sure you’ll be able to live off what’s still in your teeth from breakfast until you get home.”