(Long, boring, off-topic post from bored person who likes to hear self post.) (Honest.) I have nothing to do. The same was true last evening. So I was drinking iced beer with Norton. ("I forgot to put it in the fridge.") In rural Oregon, you make friends with whomever makes friends with you. "That plywood's not gonna fit in there, Norton. It's not 48 inches...big."
"Sure it is." I'm not even gonna get off my stool. "God-damit!"
"Well, pshyt. What're we gonna do now?" he looks at me like he's tearing up a cry.
"Something else."
"Wait! I got something in the house I want you to sign." He runs off into the house, leaving me very concerned about what this could be, of possibilities of "papers" Norton could need signed - oh god, he's ruining my beer, my iced beer, and he comes walking back out leaning forward at pace unfolding the paper, which I realize was in his back pocket when he went in. "Here!"
It's curvy and moist. It's two copies and a page of instructions to go with, and I know I'm in deep. "It's a character reference. For a concealed weapons permit." He's very excited.
Psheee-yt. What am I gonna do now.
In serious panic situations I tend to think of exploring what the consequences of "honesty" would be. Well, no way I'm signing, so it doesn't matter too much structurally either way; but what graceful lie could possibly stall in front of my swirling, re-reading eyeballs? He knows I finished reading this two minutes ago.
"I - I don't want to sign it. I wouldn't feel right about signing it."
"You know, I knew if I asked you, you would be honest with me." He slides the paper over and starts folding it. But he can't resist looking at it, and I know what's coming. "It just says here, am I trustworthy?" "Absolutely." "And have you ever seen me drunk?" "No." There's gracious lie one. "And have you ever seen me angry, bell bel..." "No."
There's quite a pause where I wish I could leave or think of anything. He's still searching that damn paper. "Well,... the only other, thing it says, here, is mentally unstable."
This is how agoraphobes are made.
PS - Sorry for interrupting the dinner hour recipes. |
