By The Campfire

July 4, 2008

I had stopped by, as I often do, to check on her since she was ninety-six years old and had started drinking again after fifty-eight years of sobriety. The small figurine that had stood erect for seventy-eight of those ninety-six years on my grandmother’s mantle now slumped, bent over seemingly in pain or possibly shame.

“Probably swallowed some of that old poison again,” said my grandmother. She pointed to a bottle on her kitchen shelf. “It’s like wine. Gains strength as it ages. That stuff has been percolating since Ike gave that Nixon fellow the benefit of the doubt.”

My grandmother had long ago stepped past reality into a world where she might have lively conversations with deceased relatives pets or game show hosts. Seeing the crumpled figurine made me doubt my own mental stability as well.

“That figurine was given to me by my late husband’s half brother, Edward,” she said. “He was a first rate bastard and a second rate lover.”

Since he was my uncle, I didn’t even want to know what that meant. Maybe it was why she always referred to my grandfather as “my late husband” instead of “your grandfather.” As I studied the figurine, she produced, from under the couch, a vintage cell phone that had likely been used last when Ronald Regan was president.

“Call him, he’ll tell you,” she said, holding the phone in my direction.

“Granny, you know grandfather is dead,” I said.

“Then call poison control for that damned statue,” she said. “It’s happened before. That poor thing has had a death wish ever since I joined the Feisty Farts Band.”

I had no response. I think she’d made it up.

I knew better than to engage her in such conversations, however, a figurine that I had seen standing alert just yesterday was now doubled over, which was odd, even in Grandmother’s house – a rambling, gingerbread structure where she had once chained Reverend Briggs (an ardent Dallas Cowboys fan) to her radiator with a set of rusted Civil War handcuffs she’d purchased on Ebay. She told him she would release him if he’d swear on his Bible and announce to the congregation on Sunday that the Cowboys were the spawn of Satan. The police unhinged the cuffs three days later.

“You are in a band?” I asked.

“Drums,” she said. “Big one too. I beat the hell out of that thing every week, just like I did your grandfather.”

“You mean your late husband?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

She walked to a closet where she kept her drum and an urn. She held up the urn for me to examine. Inside were ashes.

“Edward.”

I always wondered why my dad had a cowlick exactly like Uncle Ed.

---

I told the above story to several people who wanted me to tell a story because they liked stories.

“You have such an interesting family,” said the tall man with the small glasses.

I agreed and mentioned that the story I’d just told was a complete fabrication.

“A lie?” asked a woman who frowned the words.

“Yes,” I said. “Complete bullshit.”

“Excuse me?” said the man.

They looked at each other uncomfortably. I smiled.

“My grandfather believed that now and then, you should just tell a big damned lie,” I said. “But only when it doesn’t matter.”

They seemed confused.

“Humans have lies inside them, naturally and those lies have to come out,” I said. “It’s a leftover from the snake and the Garden of Eden or something like that. Anyway, what you do is, you purge the lies from your system on things that don’t really count. Then you save up your truths. You understand the concept of laxatives?”

They looked shocked.

“It’s the exact same idea. Get rid of the lies on stuff like the story I just told you. That way, when you are in an important situation and have to tell the truth, a lie won’t sneak out and screw you up.”

I nodded as if my explanation was perfectly normal. One of the women to my left was ugly; bless her heart. That is no lie. She could have stopped an eight-day clock.

“So if I were to ask you how I look this evening, what would you say?” she asked, leaning in, arching one half of her unibrow.

Loaded question, I thought. She surely owned a mirror. Beauty may be skin deep but when you are that ugly, you don’t go around asking people how you look.

“I’d say you are quite possibly, one of the ugliest women I have ever seen,” I said. “No, sorry, let me rephrase that. You are the ugliest human I have ever stood in close proximity to.”

MORAL: Sometimes you have to save your lies for situations that count as well.

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