It’s always been important to tell the truth. I got some of the worst whuppins of my life for lying about dumb stuff. I got even more punishment if I told my parents I did something wrong because someone else did it first. My folks were pretty staunch followers of the parental phrase “If Becky jumped off a bridge, would you do it too?” (FYI, the answer is supposed to be no. If you hesitate and don’t answer quickly, your mom might look at you and say, “What is wrong with you?” and that opens up a whole other can of worms.)
Telling the truth is still important, even if it’s not particularly popular right now. The current climate of things is one lie to combat another, and it’s definitely not working out for the best. I’m not sure if people are lying more, or they just have access to so much information they know a lot easier when someone else is lying, but it’s definitely become an issue in our society.
George always knows when I’m lying. Mostly because I have a habit of saying “That could possibly be a filthy lie,” or I begin the lie with “I have it on good authority.” There are other tells, and they usually have to do with me doing something in the truck I’m not supposed to do while he’s driving.
We have a five-dollar knife we got at a truck stop so sharp it could cut the hair off a boar. (This could be a filthy lie, as I have never attempted boar hair removal with this knife, or any other.) The blade is so thin, it’s pretty useless for anything other than laying your finger wide open, or cutting croissants with the precision of a gamma ray. I’ve hurt myself with this knife, and yet, I can’t resist the croissant-cutting prowess it has.
I agreed that it would be highly dangerous for me to ever attempt precision cutting with the five-dollar knife while the truck is moving, but sometimes hunger and boredom overrides solid decisions. Here’s where the “I’m not actually lying, I’m avoiding the question” tactics come in. I’m not proud of it, people, it’s just part of the story.
“I’m hungry, how about some sammiches?”
“Sounds good, it’s going to be a while before we stop.”
I jump in the back and realize I forgot to slice the croissants while we were stopped and the bread is smashed because some heathen has thrown his hard hat in the wrong cubby and crushed the bread. I really have no choice other than to use the five-dollar knife to complete the task I’ve committed to. I attempt to quietly open it, but Captain “I can only hear things you’re not supposed to be doing” noticed the distinctive “click” of five-dollar knife blade.
“You’re not using that knife are you?”
I immediately employ the “I’m literally sitting two feet behind your head, but I’m going to act like we’re six miles away from each other and I can’t hear exactly what you’re saying” technique.
“I’m not doing what?”
He knew. There was no escaping it, delay was all that could save me.
“Please don’t use that knife while I’m driving. I need to get rid of that thing.”
I had one croissant cut without incident, I was totally going for it with the second.
“Don’t use what knife?”
If Jesus had been in the truck, he would have slapped me. I know this. But raggedy croissants are so hard to make good sandwiches with.
“Babe, please be careful, I don’t need to have you bleeding all over the place.”
Victory. Two precision crafted croissant sammie wraps, ready for filling. Unfortunately, the victory was soured by the “disappointed dad” look I got when I handed him his lovely sandwich.
“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t open that knife while we were rolling.”
Here’s where I had an opportunity to make things right with George and Jesus, but I’m just too much of a sinner sometimes.
Sometimes, the truth is hard.