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I met my first big, fat liar in Murphy recently. I’m also a liar, though not of the big and fat variety.
We all lie. Not all the time and not with intentional harm, but we do lie. Don’t believe me? Take a scroll though your neighbor’s Facebook posts or, if you’re really brave, scroll through your own. There are dozens of dark stories behind our smiling faces.
Of course, in the age of self-marketing and in our driven desire to attract “likes” or, even scarier, “followers,” it’s become necessary to airbrush out the imperfections from our lives. I grew up in an era where the only person I knew who had followers was Jesus Christ, and even He had branding issues with the Romans working so hard to discredit him in the first documented “fake news” campaign.
But our little social lies fall into a softer category of omission lies and aren’t as egregious as big, fat lies. Omission lies are really just historical revision. For example, I tell folks that my now ex-husband ran away with his she-pig mistress. Snort, snort.
Marital affairs are thorny, they hold nuance and background stories. I’m not saying I’m culpable; I’m saying it’s complicated. In my version, there is a good guy, a bad guy, and a she-pig. But that’s too reductive to reveal the fine lines obliterated by my wide paintbrush.
The big, fat liar is not peddling a filter to brighten the complexion. He isn’t distorting the truth as much as he is inventing it, which is what makes him menacing. When I met my first big, fat liar, my Spider-Sense was already on high alert as I had just been reproached by an overworked stocker at Ingles.
In fairness to him, his apocalyptic grocery store felt over-hunted after that big storm. The only things left were the undesirables. The radishes, canned tomatoes and Splenda looked embarrassed next to all the empty shelves, like me in gym class, chosen last for Red Rover.
The worker was restocking Morton’s salt when I asked where to find the olive oil. He never missed a beat, pulling the salt from a box and placing it on the shelf, a delicate dance between his left hand and right.
“It’s over in aisle [inaudible],” he said, not looking up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” I replied.
I could tell before he turned around, I had annoyed him. “Aisle [inaudible]!” he said, this time pointing vaguely to something near the ceiling.
I craned my neck, praying for celestial intervention. I started to ask him one more time, but he caught my eye and I saw the desperation within it. I shuffled away to find the olive oil without a chaperone, but I felt pinched about it.
So when a man knocked on my door later that day, my crankiness spilled onto him. “I’m Mr. So and So,” he said, holding out his manicured hand. He was wearing a fancy outdoor brand that looked more like a costume than the rugged mountain man that he intended to represent.
“What may I do for you?” I asked curtly. I had been busy tearing open the generic version of the Little Debbie Swiss Cake Roll because the real ones had been hoarded off the shelves at Ingles.
“Welllll,” he said, drawing it out like a New Jersey actor pretending to be Southern. “My missus and I own the land that butts up ta yours,” he said in his ‘awe shucks’ manner. I followed his eyes to the end of my garden, which overlooked a quiet forest full of deer and dozens of chirping bird varieties.
“Eye just wanted your permission to mark my property lyin’. We are planning ta build a little cab’n back theyah.” I watched him walk across my back yard and place a neon pink ribbon around my tree – correction, his tree.
“Don’t you worry, now,” he yelled back cheerfully, “we aren’t planning ta build for a few yeeahs.”
Shortly after he left, I heard bulldozers and chain saws back there. Property lying indeed, thought to myself.
He showed up a few days later, this time in a Hummer that I worried might snack on my Honda. He was all charm.
“Ma’am, Eye just came by ta drop off my business cahwd,” he drawled. I asked him why he was bulldozing if he didn’t plan to build for two more years. He stepped back, shocked that this little lady had questioned him.
“Well, ma’am, I’m clearing the old logging roads back there,” he said, as if that absolved him of further explanation. “But, in two years time, you’ll have to pay to clear it all over again,” I pressed. He was unaccustomed to being pressed. He stared me down, hard. No more impish grin.
“Haven’t you ever heard of hiking trails?” He said. “It’s called adventure.”
He was, of course, a big, fat liar. I found out from my all-knowing neighbor that his development company had purchased 44 acres of the forest behind us and likely intends to squeeze in as many houses as his pink ribbons allow. He lives in Florida, and it remains unclear if he even has a missus.
He turned on his expensive heel, but the next time he knocks on my door, I’m going to offer him one of my generic Swiss rolls to match his own duplicity. He’ll probably decline.
His sharp teeth were made for fancier bites. But I’ll bet he could chew up 44 acres and have room for dessert.
Abigail Hickman is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Email abigailhickman44@gmail.com.