Finally. I’ve been writing stories under various names for the past two months and today is the day that I can finally come out with the truth: I’m a pathological liar. I’ve been in jail in Manitoba, Canada for the past five years and I’ve been trying to get a handle on this very serious problem.  After all I was in jail because of all of these lies. 
  A couple of years ago I accepted the weekly counseling that’s offered here. The counselor isn’t very good but he knows the basics. Actually he’s a retired psychologist with Alzheimer’s who comes in every Monday evening and asks me what I need help with.
   “Lying,” I tell him.
    “Are you telling me the truth ?” he asks every single Monday and then he laughs. The truth about lying, I get it but it lost its laugh-appeal after the first month. I try to smile at his monotonous stab at a joke. I know he can’t help it. I tell him my name and then he explains some theory of the self which is always the same but I guess I need this information drilled into me. I listen. It helps. 
   This blog has been a kind of exercise in trying to exhaust all the lies in me and I guess today was the day that I tuckered out. No more lies. I can be honest.
  My name is Troy Craig and I’m no longer a liar.
  Here’s something that really happened to me…


The Spoon Impersonator 


   The entertainer on stage clears his throat into the mic. A phlegmatic rattling shakes the large speakers flanking the stage and three people in the audience smile wryly. There are fourteen other people in total, most of them sitting solitary at tables. A couple of people are sharing pitchers of cheap draft but everyone else is nursing something smaller. One man gets out his ear-plugs which he was hoping he wouldn’t need.  Another man at the other end of the scattered collection of little round tables takes a deep breath and sits down across from a girl in heavily framed glasses.
    “Funny guy,” he says to her.
    “Huh ?” she asks.
     “The impersonator. That’s a great impersonation of a spoon.”
     “He hasn’t done it yet.”
     “Well when he does do it, it’ll be great.”
     “It’s so bad it sucks.”
     He doesn’t know how to respond and holds his glass up to his mouth like he’s appreciating its bouquet but really it’s a gin and tonic.
     “I mean it’s so bad that it’s not even so bad that it’s good. It’s beyond that. It’s beyond good and evil. It’s Nietzschean. It’s amazing.”
     “Come here often ?”
      She adjusts her glasses and leans into the table. Her sleeve tattoos peek out from beneath the sleeves of her retro floral shirt. His heart beats visibly beneath the pocket of his cotton sleeved shirt. 
    “You stare at me every Monday that I’m here so you’d be the best judge of that question.”
   He fights a desire to run from the table, from the pub and the world of people entirely. But where would he go, he tells himself. Every country has women. Jail he thinks. No jail has bitches. They’re even worse. He gets carried away by the panicky tangents of his thoughts. He drinks the remainder of his drink, ice and all. 
    “Yeah, you do come here often.”
    She decides that she’ll take him home. She’s always wondered what it would be like to fuck a rabbit. There might be something enjoyable. I’m not like a serial killer or anything but it would be interesting to tie him up afterwards and take some pictures, she thinks to herself. If he is a shitty lay, then he’ll be too ashamed to come back here.
   She tests him to see how much give there is to his will.
   “Can you get me a drink ?” 
   On stage, the performer curves his arms up and because of the strange and lengthy shape of his body and the imaginary space over his head that he forms with his arms he actually becomes a spoon. Between bursts of clearing his throat he makes puerile and dirty jokes about soup. 
   It gets everyone in the mood.
   For something.
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