When I was 15 years old, I became the world's biggest liar. It
wasn't that I suddenly started omitting the truth in everything, or that everything
that came out of my mouth was a lie. But I was a sophomore in high school, and
I had just learned how much fun gossiping about your classmates could be. Especially
if everything you "knew" about someone was completely made up.
"Did you know that she slept with the whole football team at that Catholic
school?" I would ask my friends at lunch, upset that I had to use another
school's football team because we didn't have our own. "You know that guy?
The big one with the shoulder pads? She even let him finger her butt! Isn't
that gross?" I'd say, then wait for the subject of my story to walk by
so that I could give her a stern look to show that I knew her secret while my
friends stared, shocked into silence. It didn't matter if the girl I was talking
about was the nerdiest library geek, or if she had helped me with my homework
the week before. It was fun watching my words turn other people into something
they weren't, and even more fun making up facts about people who were thought
to be boring.
For a while, I thought I was actually helping the people I talked about get
a life and make new friends by coming up with horrible lies about them. Oh,
I'm sure Jeff won't mind that I told three guys he was gay, I would think as
I lay in bed at night troubled by guilt, he's totally gay, and the guys were
cute so I'm sure something will come of it. And eventually something did. One
of the guys I had told about Jeff told him what I had said, and he came looking
for me to explain that he was very straight, and very, very angry, which he
proved by introducing me to his very strong fists. Not that he hit me or anything,
he just showed me that he could. So I stopped telling people he was gay and
told them that he was abusive instead.
"Well, Marcie told me Jeff took her out, and then she was all 'I don't
want to be here,' so he slugged her in the stomach," I would tell my captive
audience of four during break. "But you know, I really don't see why she's
making such a big deal out of it." I'd add. "It was a nice way for
her to miscarry. Now she'll never have to tell the drugged-up junior she was
fucking that he's the daddy." A happy ending for all.
For months, I felt almost omnipotent. If someone crossed me, I'd make them pregnant,
or on drugs, or give them a broken home. If they were nicer, I might turn that
broken home into a slightly abusive one, or the pregnancy into an error made
by the good people at "First Sign," who were competent, but let's
face it, prone to mistakes at least 2.2% of the time. My high point came when
one of my own friends, a beloved lunchtime audience member and an all-around
nice person, told me that she would never want me for an enemy. "You're
formidable," she told me on the telephone, carefully sounding out the big
word. "I would hate to be on the wrong side of you! I'd have to change
schools!"
"Not like it would matter," I told her. I took her words as a compliment,
and not as a sign that some people were afraid of me, and that I should let
up before something horrible happened.
Unfortunately, like all high school sophomores with an invincibility complex,
I chose to ignore her. I kept spreading horrible lies about my classmates without
a care in the world, afraid of no one, hair flying wildly in the wind. And then
as suddenly as the bell for lunch to be over, my world came crashing down and
the latter half of my sophomore year turned into a morality play about what
a bitch karma could be, featuring a catchy title, an amusing musical number,
and a finale starring a cast of thousands who believed that I was in love with
Esther, a lovely girl with horrible posture, halitosis, and a nose that just
wouldn't quit.
Esther had invited me to a showing of some ballet over the Christmas holidays,
and being the good friend (and social leper) that I was, I took her up on the
offer and accompanied her to what turned out to be two hours of people spanking
each other to the cheery melodies of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer"
and "Deck The Halls." Fa-la-la-la-la indeed! I was enjoying myself
immensely-- I love watching people make fools of themselves--and laughing merrily
when I noticed Cornelius, an equally bitchy gossip and my bitter rival, quietly
wetting his pants as he saw me sitting with Esther and laughing at what he presumed
to be her witty repartee.
You know you're not an average fifteen-year-old when the first thought that
comes to mind upon encountering an acquaintance is not to go over and say hi,
but to dash out the building, take three buses home, and begin doing as much
damage control as you can. Of course, I couldn't leave Esther, so I had to watch
the rest of the show, but the spanking and the punching just didn't have the
same cheer for me as it had before. Watching a fat girl failing at cartwheels
as "Jingle Bells" played in the background seemed now only to serve
as an allegory for how I felt at the moment, and I declined Esther's invitation
to ride home with her after the show.
"Someone-may-have-seen-me-at-the-show-with-Esther-but-it-wasn't-me-I-swear!"
I yelled into the phone to my friends as soon as I came home.
"And-if-you-don't-believe-me-I-hate-you-and-hope-you-die," I added
for effect.
"Don't tell anyone or I will kill you."
Of course I couldn't trust anyone I knew. After months of hearing stories about
others, and being talked about behind their backs, everyone was ready to flay
me alive and eat me whole. My return for the second semester was not one of
triumph and happiness, but a time for hiding in the library and trying to talk
to as few people as possible.
"Did you really hold her hand?" Karen asked, as I concentrated on
a copy of the Annotated Bible and mentally willed her to be shot by a madman.
"Cornelius totally saw you guys at this show, and he says you were like
holding her hand, and then like kissing her, and like it was totally gross.
Why would you do that?"
"The Lord is my shepherd," I said in response, hoping this would confuse
her enough to make her go away.
"No, seriously, like stop being weird and tell me! Did you like really
use your tongues, because I heard you did! Does she kiss well?"
"He will lead me through the valley of death. Through the house of destruction!
I WILL WANT FOR NOTHING!" I yelled, as she sat there spellbound, imagining
how my tongue must have looked in Esther's throat, how my hand must have felt
in Esther's large paws.
"Gross," she muttered and stalked off to tell the others.
"Come back, I have juicy stories about the archangel Gabriel!" I shouted
at her back, to no avail. "You suck, and you walk like your dad fucked
you in the ass!" I screamed as she walked out of the library and began
spreading the rumors up and down the halls, ruining my high school career forever
and insuring that I would never get into a good college.
"Mark?" I imagined the admissions people at NYU saying, holding my
application between thumb and forefinger as though it might be contaminated
with some unwholesome disease. "Why he was seen holding hands and making
out with Esther? Let's burn his application and then hire a hit man to kill
him."
However, as time went on, I realized that being seen with Esther really hadn't
changed much for me. For all my supposed power, I had never been very popular.
Very few people knew who I was, and even fewer people cared about what I was
doing, and with whom. As the weeks passed and the lies were forgotten, I became
good friends with Esther, gave up on gossip, and dedicated my life to good works
and helping old ladies cross the street, whether they wanted to or not. Or rather,
I just gave up the gossiping bit. It was hard not to talk about people. Even
harder to keep my friendships with people who didn't like me for anything other
than the good stories I told, but I managed to salvage some things from the
wreckage.
Of course, one can never truly stop gossiping. There are an infinite number
of opportunities to spread lies about classmates, and teachers, and janitors,
and only a few ways to not hurt the people you're maligning. So when the tides
changed, the moon waned, and the urge to spread overtook me once more, you could
always find me in the library, perched on a desk, telling the librarian just
one more story about Jean, a 12th grader who had just been caught blowing the
groundsman.
Mark Shrayber is 20 and horribly addicted
to sniffing glue. In his spare time he cuts a lot of hos, busts many a cap,
and dodges the police every chance he gets.
