Lies

Have you ever been an accessory to a lie? In my case, the lies have been many and the friend telling them is out of control—with no foreseeable end to the tragic cycle.


We'll call this friend "Bob," since that moniker is pretty far off from his actual name. I met Bob in 2003 when I was living with my sister in Brooklyn. We became quick friends and he regaled me with stories of his life as a musician signed to a major label, a "fact" that would become important when I later began dissecting his lies. I immediately noticed that underneath his cocksureness was a desperate person with self esteem so depleted it could not fill a Dixie cup. Boasting is one thing, but outright lies (“I wrote some of the songs your favorite artists have performed.”) are difficult to overlook because they are blatantly unbelievable. I felt embarrassed for him because he was completely unaware of the absurdity of his claims. I think he had been brainwashed by his own bullshit.

So, successful musician/transplant from tony Scottsdale, Arizona finds himself in a quandary: What happens when people find out that his existence is a web of deceit woven by a man with gutter-level self esteem? I got my answer when Bob instant messaged me one night in 2004. He claimed he was suicidal and only moments away from ending it all. I guess you could say I was a little skeptical. After all, who really instant messages a threat to end their life? Still, I’ve always been behind the curve when it comes to social media, so I pressed a bit:

Me: Don’t do anything you’ll regret

Bob: I’ve already laid the knives out on the floor


When I read this exchange back to my roommate, he doubted the veracity of Bob’s promise to commit seppuku on a cold winter night.


“Who lays out multiple knives for such an occasion,” he queried. “Just be careful.”


Boy was I careful. I trekked out to a part of Brooklyn I hadn’t been to in almost 8 months. I arrived at Bob’s apartment and was truly shocked by what I found: it was hardly the bachelor pad belonging to an undercover songster I’d envisioned; in reality, it was a total fucking dump. By all accounts, this was a rundown shithole inhabited by a very obese, older man and his significantly younger roommate. Weird.

When I entered Bob’s room, I found no knives, no obvious signs of an impending suicide. Just a lonely guy who’d gotten so caught up in his shit that he could no longer cope with any of it. If Bob was unprepared for reality, his friends were equally caught off guard. As it turns out, Bob’s suicide attempt stemmed from a de facto intervention by a group of “friends” who’d put together the pieces and realized that the man who writes the songs you sing in the shower was a fraud. Of course, Bob never admitted any of this to me. He actually kept up the lie and told me that he couldn’t understand why his friends would cast him out. I was in no place to judge. I did what I used to best—I listened.

I suspect that Bob realized he showed me too much of his hand because after that night, we pretty much stopped speaking to one another. Occasionally, I’d see him pop up on a hip hop message board, always eager to play the antagonist and get under people’s skin. It’s so easy to be what you aren’t when it comes to the internet. Bob knew this, took full advantage, and unleashed online salvos with ghetto bravado that would lead you to believe he was from the Compton, not the mean streets of Scottsdale. People on that message board suspected something was up, just like the friends who brought Bob to the brink of ending it all…kind of. On the message board, everything from Bob’s street credibility to his alleged industry contacts was called into question. Pressed for answers, Bob promptly deleted himself from the website, a move that probably answers a lot of questions for his detractors. Full. Of. Shit.

Last year, I found out that Bob had married and had a child. I was happy for him. Did I mention that he once tried using a picture to pass of his baby cousin as his own to thwart rumors on the hip hop site that he was gay? Yeah. That really happened. I spoke to Bob a few times, online, and he sounded really happy. Unfortunately, I don’t think people like Bob handle actual success well, and he was quickly drawn back to the hip hop site with an arsenal of crap to pass off as genuine achievements. Silently, I wished him well and put him out of my mind.

About a week ago, I heard from Bob. I think the crazy never real go away. They just lurk in the shadows and spring from behind the tree of opportunity at the precise moment when YOU don’t need crazy in your life. Haley and I are about to have a baby, so it’s fitting that Bob would come knocking. According to Bob, his wife accused him of hitting her (he said he “fell into” her), an accusation that led to his incarceration in a U.K. prison reserved for violent felons. Upon release from jail, he was promptly deported and arrived in New York last week—a broken man with no wife or son. I asked him where he was living and he told me back in his old apartment in Brooklyn, the same place where he’d resided with the obese man. Strange. Did his former roommate just happen to have an opening? With Bob, it was always something and this time was no different.

Yesterday, I logged into Facebook and saw the following message posted by Bob:


“Hi friends of Bob. This is Bob’s friend Jake. Bob died today. Please keep him in your prayers and thoughts so that his spirit may live on.”


Initially, I was shocked. My gut was pierced by a sensation usually reserved for bad news about a loved one. While Bob was far from loved by me, I couldn’t help but to feel as if our paths had crossed enough times to make his death a relevant—and shocking—event. God bless the skeptic that lives in my heart, because I picked up the phone and texted Bob. Imagine my shock when a dead man answered me back.


“She filed for divorce”


This was followed by suicide threats, and I realized that I was firmly entrenched Bob’s cycle of bullshit. Who was this wonderful friend, Jake, who so selflessly agreed to log into Bob’s account and post an obituary for all to see? Wouldn’t a real friend call the cops instead of aiding and abetting a suicide? Of course, there probably is no Jake. Just another character in Bob’s cast of delusions.

This time, I didn’t take the bait. After he stated that he was in Long Island and “about to go in,” I called 911 and reported the suicide threat. 911 could do nothing about it without a solid lead as to his exact whereabouts, but I felt I did what I needed to do. One day, Bob will run out of options and, sadly, suicide may become a viable option to end the misery of a life lived as a total lie. I’m glad that I choose not to hide in the shadows of deceptions because the light of truth favors my skin! Bob will turn 40 years old next year, an awfully old age to be playing the lying game. In my experience, people like Bob end up dead or in jail. It’s a sad fact. I do, however, pledge to remove myself from Bob’s cycle of bullshit. It serves neither me nor my wife well to associate with someone like Bob. That’s the truth.


“To be persuasive we must be believable; to be believable we must be credible; credible we must be truthful.”—Edward R. Murrow

Smile!

In both geographic and dental senses, Ireland isn't that far from England. So maligned are the Brits' calcified outgrowths that they've endured well-documented parody in all forms of media. Again, Ireland is a mere stone's throw away from England, so it stands to reason that the pearly whites of the Emerald Isle aren't all that pearly.

While my teeth are neither a buttery hue nor a cluster of jagged bone formations, they have seen their share of wear. What's the damage?

• 12 fillings
• 8 original fillings removed and replaced due to mercury content
• 4 wisdom teeth removed
• 1 root canal

It doesn't help that the dentist scares the shit out of me; so does the drill. I've given each individual drill bit a name based on the sound it makes. Buzzy and Choppy are the worst.

A few weeks ago, I underwent gum surgery. Fun. I received more anesthetic than I ever have in my life. Despite the constant sticking and a completely numb left side, I still felt the waterpik touch a nerve shortly after my gums had been ripped open. The best part is that I get to do the right side of my face in about a week.

With a baby on the way in a little over a month, I can assure you that I am not planning on getting lazy when it comes to my son's dental hygiene. I will dress up as Timmy the fucking Tooth if I have to. Whatever it takes. Because he's my son, and for that reason, the dentist will never be his friend.