During college, my friend Eve and her roommate Kathy were two of my closest friends. After graduation, Kathy and I both moved to
I don’t remember what I was talking about, but I do remember being taken aback. I looked over at Eve for some support, but I was looking in wrong place though. “Yeah,” Eve said without mercy, “you do exaggerate a lot.”
I guess Kathy, seeing my reaction to their comments, tried to comfort me by adding “I’m not saying you’re a liar. I’m just saying you tend to embellish…embellish your stories with statements that are untrue. ‘Lies’ if you will.”
For the first time since my 6th beer, I was speechless. My entire life, my family and I had accused my father of the same thing. Through the years, he would tell his favorite stories over and over again, and each time the facts became more and more outlandish. His friend Donny began the “truth or lie” game. After one of my father’s tales, we would collectively decide what in that story (if anything) was true and what was one of my father’s famous embellishments. In the end, we would reconstruct what we believed to be the most likely events behind my father’s story. When he told us about the time when, as a teenager, he scaled the side of the house and threw firecrackers down the chimney while his sister and her friends watched horror movies in the living room – we reduced it to him yelling “boo” from behind the couch. We decided that his “potato rocket” was more likely made of a cafeteria straw and a couple pieces of wadded up paper than a giant piece of PVC pipe and flaming tennis balls. It horrified me to believe that I had become my father, and I told my two friends as much, to which they responded “you’re probably exaggerating about that too. There’s no way your dad claimed to have shot at his RA with flaming tennis balls.” (He did.)
Eve agreed. “That story you told us about crashing your family’s only car during Christmas…Kathy and I both assumed your family was poor as shit and that you lived in some shanty village. Then I show up to your house and you had like six cars lined up in your driveway.”
I tried to explain how my other family members’ cars were all struck down by separate freak mechanical accidents, but the two of them were on a roll. Plus by this point, the alcohol had rendered me incapable of defending myself.
“And that story you told us about when you took your twin to karaoke, there’s no way that was true.” Kathy added. “You said that woman was 80 years old, but why would an 80 year old be hanging out at a bar late on a Friday night. There’s just no way.”
I was flabbergasted that I was being called to defend every story I had ever told, but at the same time I was flattered that they had actually been listening. I had evidence to support my karaoke story – photos that one of my friends had taken that documented every moment. I thought of showing them to the girls, but decided that they would only accuse me of doctoring the evidence. Instead, I decided to call someone that could collaborate my story, so I called my brother.
As the phone rang, I prayed Matt would answer. He was my only hope for defending my name - my only hope on proving that I hadn’t yet turned into my father. The phone rang what seemed like 100 times (an exaggeration), but just as I was about to hang up, he picked up the phone.
“Matt. Talk to
“Matt!” I screamed as I turned on the speaker phone so Kathy and Eve could both hear. “Tell the story about the time we did karaoke at my place.”
My brother told the following story:
My girlfriend Jodi and I decided to visit Chris over St. Patrick’s Day weekend. We got up on a Friday night, and Chris informed us that we were going to go to dinner and then we were going to meet up with some of his friends to do karaoke at a bar down the street from his apartment.
We get there, we’re drinking, we’re singing and having a good time. Then Chris and I decide that we’re going to sing one of our classic duets – Don’t Stop Believing. I know…Journey is overdone, but it’s always a good way to get the crowd going. So the two of us are up there and just as we’re really start to rock out, this tiny old woman appears in between us, as if from no where. She was easily 80 if she was a day, tiny and prune like, wearing this big crazy wig.
At first I thought she was just trying to sneak on by, but I could tell by the devilish grin on her face that she was there for a little something more. Chris did what he always does when
confronted by a woman…acts really awkward and sneaks away (not an exaggeration). But I thought “why not give this old thing a little big of love,” so I put my arm around her frail little body and started to sing with her. She and I are rocking back and forth, and she’s loving the ride, singing away. And then she gets up on her tippy toes and moves her face towards mine. I assume she wants to get closer to the microphone, so I put it to her mouth…just as she goes to whisper in my ear “Don’t be so obvious!” It’s broadcast over the entire bar, and she ducks her head in embarrassment. At this point, everyone in the bar is watching me cuddled up with this old woman, and my girlfriend is taking pictures so she can show everyone. It was awesome.
The next thing I know, I feel her tiny boney hands slip into my jacket pocket. Why she stuck her hand in my pocket is beyond me, my guess at the time was that she was trying to feel me up. Regardless, while her hand is in my pocket, I feel something cold and damp slip off into my pocket. I was repulsed. I assumed a Band-Aid had fallen off her hand. She then snuck off and went back to her table, where she high-fived another woman sitting with her who was probably just as old as she was.
When the song was over, Chris and I went back to the bar. Everyone was dying to know what she had slipped into my pocket. I reached in and pulled out a small piece of paper. She had scribbled her number down on one of the karaoke song request slips.
About an hour later I was telling the story to a girl outside. She grabbed the paper from me and called the old woman’s number. The woman had long since left and was back at home and probably in bed.
The girl screamed “Why are you hitting on my man?” when the old woman picked up.
“Who the fuck is this,” the old woman yelled back. “You’re a fucking pervert!” And then she hung up the phone. We were all shocked. She was such a nice and frail looking old woman, but man she sure had a mouth on her.
And that was that. I still have the number in my wallet. I’m thinking about having it framed.
And with that, I thanked my brother and wished him a good night. When I hung up the phone, I noticed that both Eve and Kathy were standing there with their mouths wide open. “Shit!” Kathy said. “It was just like you said!”
“See!” I shouted in desperation. “I told you I wasn’t a liar.”
Kathy and Eve looked at each other. “Nope,” Kathy told me. “You’re definitely still a liar.”
“Oh no doubt about it.” Eve added.
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