The Scar Boys

Lying

It was a Friday afternoon. My dad was home from Albany for the weekend and we were sitting across the kitchen table from one another. I was leaving on tour in a matter of weeks, and I hadn't told my parents anything about it. In fact, regarding my future, I had told them a series of colossal lies.

Colossal lie #1: I had applied to four colleges. They'd helped me fill out the applications, write my essays, and even took me to see all four schools. When everything was ready to be mailed, I drove my mom's car to the post office---"Mom, Dad, this will mean more to me if I'm the one to mail the applications"---and pitched all four packages in a dumpster.

Colossal Lie #2: I was accepted at the university of Scranton, my first choice, Johnny had applied to Scranton as a safety school and got in. He was too much of a choir boy to want to give me his acceptance letter and packet of admissions materials, but Cheyenne talked him into it. A little creative cutting, pasting, and photocopying, and I made it look like the package was addressed to me. I'd never seen Mom and Dad more proud. 

Colossal lie #3: I mailed the check my dad wrote to Scranton---for the first semester tuition, room, and board---to the same place I'd "mailed" the application, though I was smart enough to tear the check into little pieces before throwing it away.

It was against the fictional backdrop that I told my father I was going on the road.

"We'll be gone about a month."

"But that means you'll be late going to school," he said, a bit bewildered. I'd caught his off guard, which was my plan.

"It'll be fine. I'll be there for the first day of classes."

There must've been something in my voice, because my dad did a double take. His eyes narrowed and his usually fidgety hands went very still. His Spidey sense were working.

"Harry, how long have you been planning this? You said you have a van, you made a record, and you booked more than twenty shows, that's not something you do overnight, is it."

"I don't know, I guess a couple of months."

"And why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I was afraid you'd say no."

"But what if I say no now?"

I was silent because we both knew the answer. I was going with or without his blessing. But he was digging for something else here.

"You know, the check we sent to Scranton hasn't been cashed yet."

This is the scene in the movie where the prisoner has just escaped from the cellblock and is skulking along the interior perimeter of a giant brick wall when a massive floodlight stops him in his tracks. Busted.  

"Huh," I said, trying to act cool, "That's weird."

"I should say so. Tell me, Harry, if I call the school and ask why, what do you think they'll tell me?"

Stick with the lie, I told myself, ride it all the way to the end.

"Probably some clerical mistake," I said, "I'll call them for you and find out."

"Aha!" He pointed at me. My offer to call, or rather my effort to stop him from calling, was the clue he was looking for.

"You never mailed the check, did you? You used that money for your band's little tour!" When he got angry his Boston accent became more pronounced. The "a" in band was flattened, and "tour" became "taw."

"No! Dad, I wouldn't steal from you! Besides," I said, thinking fast, "if I'd used the check, it would've been cashed, right?" This calmed him down a bit.

"Hmm. Yes, yes, I can see where that would be true." But he still wasn't convinced. "Then what happened to it?"

"Really, Dad, I don't know. I'll call the school and find out."

"No, Harry, I'll call the school." He went to his home office to get the phone number and make the call, leaving me in the kitchen to sit and think.

Option #1: Run. Get out of the house and get on tour. Things would sort themselves out. Only problem was, all our gear was in my parents' basement. And I had nowhere to go and nowhere to hide for the three weeks until the tour started.

Option #2: Go find my dad right then and there and confess. Do it before he makes the call and maybe he'll go easy. Tell him everything and let the chips where they may.

Option #3: Wait it out. Let an opportunity present itself to me.

I chose door number three.

Five minutes later my father came back into the kitchen. I was still sitting at the table. I didn't look up.

"Isn't that strange," he said.

"Did they get the check?" I asked.

"Why you cheeky little bastard," he said. I kept my head down.

"You lied about everything didn't you?"

No answer from me. I kept my eyes glued to the Formica surface of that kitchen table.

"The school has never heard of you. Not even an application. You've been playing this charade for months. For the first time in my life I wish I was a violent man so I could beat the living daylights out of you." 

My dad was just getting wound up. When he stumbled into a morally righteous position, all bets were off. His paternal soul gave way to his political mind as he figured out how best to eviscerate me.

I sat there with my head down as my father spewed a rainstorm of abuse on me. I was so wrapped up in my own world, trying to find a way out, that I only caught sporadic words and phrases from his rant.

"Ingrate."

"Thankless."

"We sacrificed everything for you."

"Toaster."

I looked up at that one, not sure hoe a toaster figured into what he was saying, but he was so lost in the brilliance of his own argument that he hardly noticed I was still there. It went on and on and on and on.

Then I heard "failure," and "loser," in rapid succession. He was probably saying something like "I don't want you to be a failure," and "Don't end up as a loser," but I didn't hear the context like a trigger. I'd had enough. It was time to play my one and only card.

"You're right, Dad," I interrupted him with an edge. 

My tone caught his attention and I could see that he was shocked I was talking back.

"I guess it's just was us god damn freaks do, isn't it." I met his eyes and held his gaze.

Let him stare at my mangled face, I thought. Let him see his son.

My dad knew exactly what I was talking saying. He was the only person on the planet with a more vivid and more painful memory of that day at the lighthouse than me. He knew this was my golden ticket, that there was nothing more he could say.

And I knew this wouldn't work for me more than once. At least my deformities had taught me how to choose my battles. 

He started to say something almost a full minute later, but then thought better of it. He flopped down into a chair. And just like that, it was over. I had won.