We Hold This Moose to be Self-Evident

The Elasticity of Truth

One of the problems of my personal and familial affliction is that, sooner or later, everyone becomes incredulous. Something that starts as simple as, 'You will NOT believe what I saw on the way to work today' is met by a well-worn look that says, 'Yeah, you are right, I won't.'

I come from a family of prevaricators. Storytellers. People familiar with the elasticity of truth. You know, liars. It is not, I say again and again, my fault. Genetics, personal preference and attraction are all stacked against me. Nature, Nurture, Friendship. My mother is a storyteller, for a living. My father's stories are all that keep him alive. If a tree falls over in front of my sister's house, there was a tornado. Aunts, uncles, cousins, we take the truth and pull it, sometimes just a little, on occasion completely out of shape. Only my brother Will seems to have escaped this curse or blessing, and that is because of conscious, constant effort on his part. Painful, too, for him at times. He refuses to say anything that is not firmly rooted in truth: pulled over while driving his rusty old VW squareback, he was asked, "Do you know why I stopped you, son?" and instead of saying no or just not saying anything, he answered, "Because I've been drinking and there's a half-ounce of pot in the glovebox?" "Well, no, son...your tail light is out...."

And there we have a perfect example of my need to help truth stretch. I don't know why he was pulled over. He may have been weaving like a drunken, stoned teenager. But Will drunk and weaving down the road and getting pulled over is nowhere near as engrossing as Will being pulled over for a taillight. You see my dilemma? Our society cries out, night and day, for entertainment. YOU people are at fault, not me. Not us. We hear you. We try to help. Your lives would be even more shallow and empty without us.

Will's story gets better; asked to step out of the car, he was met with startled laughter from the constable who had, apparently, never pulled over a drunk, stoned teenage boy in a dress. This is the point where people stop believing. This little slice of truth is what makes them think, 'Ah, you liar.' but the sad truth is that it is, indeed, sadly, true. It is strangely difficult for people, especially those in the middle, to accept that other lives may be broader in scope than their own. The poor, huddled, unwashed masses...oh hell, my people... have no problem with lives lived fully, haphazardly. That's just the way life is at the bottom, and, at the top, the rich can afford to do things and make the consequences go away.