Pants On Fire

Voice of Authority: You were given a citation for operating a limousine with an expired permit. Would you like to tell me what happened?
Head: Ugh, yeah...sure...I normally drive in Dallas, see...and I work part time out here, and ugh, well, I keep my permits in this sleeve, and since I'm not out here very often and it's in this sleeve, I didn't check it very often and that's why it was expired...because I didn't check it very often.
Heart: Dude, way to cover...stammer much?
Voice of Authority: (looking down at the officer's statement) Hmm...The officer stated that you told her that you "couldn't afford all the renewal fees because of the economy."
Head: Ugh, well, I may have said that...at the time.
Heart: Busted!!!
Voice of Authority: Mr. Hystad, I don't like being told what people think I want to hear. Nevertheless, since you've paid your renewal fees, and passed your TSA threat assessment and drug screen, I'm going to issue you your permit. Please try to remember to renew on time, since this stuff wastes your time, but more importantly, MY time...take this to the clerk and get your picture taken. (points to door)
Heart: (Sniffing) I think someone needs a diaper change...you really "Stuck it to The Man".
Head: Fooled 'em again, didn't I?
Heart: Wipe off the Flop Sweat before you take our picture.

Load.

I'm sitting in my dad's old office waiting to be interviewed for a job I don't understand by a guy I barely remember from a company picnic ten years prior. I'm two years out of college and the most reliable source of income I've had in the past year is "plasma donor urgently needed". I have just found out that I am going to be a father and I have less than five bucks in my pocket. My old man has arranged an interview for me for an entry-level position that sounds reasonable. I find myself looking through the slightly cracked venetian blinds to covertly scan the main room for clues as to what the hell these people do. The phones aren't ringing, the desks are neat and orderly, and it looks like the only movement in the room is coming from the older guy in the corner who, based on the constant shifting in his chair, appears to have a bad case of hemorrhoids. Catching my reflection in the window, I notice that I look like hammered dog shit. My hair is too long and hanging over my sport coat collar. I'm sporting a Jesus beard from the show that closed a month before. The piece of crap shirt that I've had since I was fifteen is wrinkled and the collar is too tight, and I've obviously had to suck it in to get the top button done. I manage a smile in the glass, and then a frown as I'm not convinced.

"Tim! Great to see you, thanks for waiting." The voice is booming, and startles me.
Looking up, I see the man I now remember as being the office kiss-ass. Now, The Boss.
"Thank you for seeing me, Steve, I'm really glad to be here." He accepts my handshake and I give him a solid two-pump look-in-the eye number with the bicep-shoulder grasp, just like dad taught me.
Releasing my grip, he pops into his office chair and grabs my resume, leans back and studies it.
Briefly.
"Tough finding work with a theatre degree?" he asks, well knowing.
"Yes sir, that's why I'm here. I need a career-type job, with an opportunity to learn and grow, and the security of good benefits." It's exactly how I rehearsed it, a carbon copy of what my dad said to say, and a fine way to cut to the chase.
We review my thin resume for a while, as I answer the inevitable questions about gaps between jobs, and why I'm interested in the company.
He blinks and says nothing.
I blink and realize I should say something.
"I will be perfectly honest, Steve. I know next to nothing about the insurance business. I never gave it two thoughts growing up. It frankly seemed a little pointless, like selling air...except my dad worked very hard at it, did well with the company, and managed to take care of his family...six kids, and half of us with college degrees."
He smiles for a moment before a darkness creeps in around his face.
"Tim, now I'll be honest with you..Yours isn't the worst resume I've ever seen, but there's no way that I'm going to hire you and I'll tell you why...Your dad was "outspoken"...that is to say, that he was a huge pain in the ass to everyone, up and down the ladder. None of us in here that worked under him felt like he gave us anything...He was cold, and for an insurance man, that's a recipe for disaster...and he ruffled feathers...he almost messed it up for all of us."
"Did you know that? Did you know that he almost got us all fired before he retired?"
He is glaring at me.
"No, sir. No. I did not know that." I respond quietly. The interview is over, it is dead in the water.
"I guess I'll take it down the road, then... I have a couple of interviews later." I lie.
He slides the resume across his desk and I take it carefully in my hand knowing that I have only one copy.
"How's your mom, Tim?" He asks, catching me off guard.
"She's fine. Getting along...You know how it is."
"Your dad sure did her dirty." He is smiling now. Contempt for me and smug self-satisfaction mingling across his face. He is enjoying this. "The judge put it on him pretty good, though."
"Yes, sir. I'm sure he did." I stand, and hesitate, debating whether or not to throw my chair through the window.
"Thanks for seeing me, I'll show myself out."
Just as I pass the threshold of his office he calles out to me: "No hard feelings, Tim...and good luck with that acting thing."
I take a deep breath, smile, and calmly walk past the row of cubicles to the exit, all the while extending my arm and middle finger to the officious little prick who desperately deserves it.

A few hours later, I call my dad to thank him for setting up the interview, and yes, I thought the interview went well, but they are looking for people with Business degrees.

Wash.

How easy it is to lie.
I should know.
I'm quite adept at it.
I've been lying to myself for years.
I think it's fear that causes it.
I lie to protect myself from the truth.
I enjoy the bubble-wrap of a lie.
I don't have to feel reality.
I'm comfy in my lies.
I won't stand naked in the light.
I'd rather lie.

How hard it is to tell the truth.
I should know.

Rinse.

The photos were my idea. Spawned from the backwater recesses of my perverse sense of humor, the very idea was hysterically funny to us AT THE TIME. The basic premise was that our boss, Mr. Jackson, was having a not-so-discreet affair with one of our co-workers, a much younger woman named Stacy, and was getting away with it. Mr. Jackson was not a bad guy, just kind of a tool, an annoying but harmless pencil-pusher. Stacy, while attractive and talented, was a little bitchy, and didn't exactly hide the affair. One night, after a few drinks, we got started laughing about Stacy "doing" Mr. Jackson...Action, Jackson! Action Jackson and Stacy Doll! The next thing you know we were running drunkenly down the aisles at Kaybee Toys, putting all sorts of stuffed animals and action figures into various Kama Sutra positions, and a camera was produced, and our minds went THERE...Action Jackson and Stacy in flagrante delicto, caught on tape, proof for all to see...we also did a GI Joe and Ken rodeo scene, a Betsy Wetsy...you get the picture.
High hilarity.
Until the shit-storm blew in.
You see, apparently it was a bad idea to post these pictures all over the office. On Monday, one of us was called before the big boss, and was terminated immediately. Made to clean out her desk, and given the perp walk with security at her side, she exited the building without a look over her shoulder. I was terrified. She was a fixture in the company, the glue to the whole damn thing. If they could fire her, they could throw me out the window. I was nothing to them. I shot a glance across the room at our third, and she was as white as a sheet. In silent accord, we both returned to our desks, waiting for the call to come, thinking about what we would lose, trying to come up with some kind of defense if the accusation came. It never did. Our friend took all of the punishment, all of the pain, all of the condemnation.
Months later, the bill arrived.
Some strange things happened in those weeks afterward. Our friend, who suffered all of the wrath of a stirred up hornets nest, was re-hired. She had some good friends in H. R. and corporate, and because she apologized to Mr. Jackson and Stacy, she was brought back, properly on probation, but fully in the swing. The third retreated. She practically went into hiding, got very involved with a boyfriend, and quietly moved on to the next company.
For me, things got a little complicated.
Every day, from the time of her firing, and for a long time even after I saw her get promoted, I felt a terrible guilt, knowing that if I had only stood up and said something, the punishment would not have been so hard on her. Of course, that was a rationalization: We both would have been fired. Twice as much loss.
Twice as much loss, but nowhere near as much guilt. I have much gratitude to my brave friend for protecting us, but years later, I can't help but think that I would have rather stood up in front of the man and crowed, "Come on! It was just a little Action, Jackson!"

Spin.

I'm sitting in the cockpit of a million dollar helicopter with the latest in advanced technology which includes a high resolution targeting camera. I'm hovering at altitude, high above the fray, with my gun sights squarely on the suspected insurgents. They seem agitated enough, and there are reports coming in over the headset of men armed with rocket launchers and AK-47's. The field of fire is clear, and I am on the trigger of a .50 caliber flex gun, capable of massive instantaneous damage. I'm very worried about the two men who appear to be toting weapons but they are not aiming at me. I radio in that "I see five to seven men with AK's". In the corner of my vision field I see another man peering around the corner and apparently aiming something at me. I have the clearance to fire, and I open up.
After a moment, I scan the scene. Dead bodies, men down, and no one targeting me, or firing at me. I radio in what happened. I describe the scene. One survivor, and he's crawling. I hover with my sight trained on the wounded man. A van pulls up, and three men hurry over to the wounded man and quickly lift him and begin moving him to the van. I radio in "they are picking up the wounded and all of the weapons." A moment later, my partner in the other helicopter opens up on the van, killing the three men, finishing off the wounded man, and seriously wounding the two children who are in the front seat.
The story is reported that among the dead are two photojournalists from Reuters. The story is buried as there is no proof. Until now.

Behold, the power of a lie.