Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Everybody Lies

"Everybody lies" is the catchphrase of that most cynical of TV doctors, House. As sad and depressing such a catchphrase is, I can't help but think it might be true.

This is the story of how I told a lie.

I know that for many people I am the paragon of a Good, Decent Person, practically a saint, and I know that to admit to lying would shatter their image of me, and possibly their souls as well. Please, Dear Reader - do not feel distraught as your very concept of the world swirls and reshapes around you. Rather, rejoice in the knowledge that you have taken a step closer to understanding a Universal Truth and accept this new perspective of the world. And, I beg of you - offer me forgiveness for my wrongdoing, that I might feel ease within my soul.

To fully understand the context of my lie I must take you back in time to a morning a few days after my twentieth birthday, where I sat alone and despairing upon my sofa as I realised how pointless my life was. I was not studying. I had no job. I sat around all day occupying my mind with sci-fi-related nonsense. Where, I asked myself morosely, was my life going? What useful task occupied my days? I felt myself to be an utterly useless person and I decided to console myself by having a small glass of the sherry left over from my legendary Christmas trifle.

(I fear I may have inadvertantly destroyed yet another image people have of me - that of how I am not the type of person to sit at home drinking alcohol at ten-thirty on a Thursday morning.)

As tends to happen when misery, myself, and alcohol come together, I ended up drinking a little bit more than just a small glass. I ended up finishing a good third of the bottle.

I stumbled over to my computer desk, shouting "WHEEE!" whenever the earth seemed to rock a bit too much, and plonked myself down into my chair. I embarked on one of my infamous conversations with myself.
"Right, my girl," I said to myself, "you could sit here and be drunk and continue to do nothing. Or - and I highly recommend this second option - you could sit here and be drunk and search for something to do with your life."
"Goo' idea," I slurred, and I logged onto TradeMe and began to search for jobs. At my first hazy glance there seemed to be, typically, nothing available that I could do. But as I scrolled back up the page I saw a listing for a waitress at a place named the Hangar.
"Aargh!" I roared as ancient resentment towards the Hangar bubbled within me. When I was sixteen I was homeschooled, and one day as I was supposed to be doing my much-hated maths I began to reflect on the impending closure of Hobsonville Airbase and daydream about what possible use the old aircraft hangars could be put to. I created this elaborate fantasy of one of them being converted into this arty muso bar where non-mainstream bands would perform while their bow-tie wearing artist friends would recline in refurbished retro lounge seats sipping the more unusual types of alcoholic beverages. There would be a gallery lining the walls where pretentious people could come and make snide comments about the nature of art. My imaginings got even more elaborate until they included acrobats descending to perform in mid-air above the stage and an in-house five-player string quartet. I named this place... the Hangar.

A few weeks later I was driving down a road close to my house where I read a sign: The Hangar - Opening Soon. I swore elaborately inside my mind and shook my fist at the gods of creativity for sharing my ideas with lesser minds. And I set aside all hope for it being an artistic haven and resented the Hangar with all my heart, a feeling that continued for four whole years.

So, naturally, when I read their listing for an enthusiastic, outgoing person, no waitressing experience necessary, I clicked the apply button. Yes, I was that desperate.

As I filled out the application the combined effects of self-doubt, resentment, and sherry led me to do something I have never done before - I filled out the application with phrases littered with sarcasm. I praised myself to the highest heights - Why would you not hire me? I wrote. I am brilliance personified. Speaking with all possible modesty, my skills and talents are of such greatness that to fail to hire me would be a waste and a disgrace - and so on. I used adjectives of such praiseworthy complexity that I'm surprised God himself did not strike me down for my use of hubris.

Is it a lie when you say untrue things about yourself, even if you're being completely sarcastic about it?

I sent off the application, where I assumed someone would have a couple of minutes laugh at my expense before consigning it to the trash.

It's funny how life turns out.

Two days later I recieved a phonecall asking if I could come in for an interview. By this time I was sober and had returned to my normal, optimistic, self-confident self.
"Oh! Yes! Certainly! Great! Wow!" I said, all the while thinking: Holy crap. They actually took me seriously.

Buoyed by my success of unintentionally getting an interview, I turned up to the interview determined to impress. Boy, I wanted this job. I was witty and enthusiastic. I made them laugh. I came up with ingenious answers and resorted to sweet innocence when necessary. No doubt my usual impressively descriptive hand gestures were in full swing. All was going well. Until...
"You appear to be a quite, um, enthusiastic person," observed Alton, my interviewer.
I felt a brief moment of panic.
"Now Zara," I scolded myself, "we have talked about this before. You have a tendency to come across as being quirky and eccentric and most new acquaintances just don't know how to respond to it. Please, tone it down and for heavens sake try to act normal. And come up with a decent excuse for your behavior, ASAP."
And this was it. This was when I lied. I succumbed to my self-inflicted peer preassure and I said...
"Ah, yeah. I... had... coffee, this morning."
Oh, I'm sure the very gates of heaven trembled at my words.
"It must have been a great coffee," grinned Alton.
"Oh, yes, it was!" I said enthusiastically. Doomed. Condemned. A dark inkblot exists next to my name in the Book of Life where God dropped his pen in horror. "It's South Indian coffee. It's so concentrated and strong that you're supposed to drink it in shots... but I had a full cup size." And so the lies went on.

Well, I got the job. It seems that, contrary to what my parents taught me, lies and alcoholism do get you somewhere in life. But not without penalty.

On my first day of work I met my manager, Tom.
"I hear you're pretty fond of coffee," he said.
"Oh-ooh-ah," I replied.
"Alton said to me, 'Tom, you're going to like this girl, but you're going to have to be patient with her when she's had coffee.'"
"Oh, goody. I have a reputation," I said faintly.
"I'm going to feed you coffee sometime just so I can see what you're like!" he exclaimed.
And he did. He brewed me coffee so strong that I couldn't sleep that night and turned me into a trembling zombie the following day. Which meant I had to have more coffee to get me through work. Which of course meant I couldn't sleep again...

I am now a coffee addict. I cannot sleep. I cannot study. I cannot traverse a corridor without skipping madly.

Oh, let this be a lesson to you, my friend. Never lie. Not even a small lie. There are always consequences to every lie - even the most seemingly innocuous ones.