The difference is, I lie for a reason, for the understandable and underreported concern of identity theft. I’d lie even to my mother, God rest her soul, as even parents aren’t exempt from stealing. Besides, I am not unlike other professionals, who tell tall tales to bolster mediocre clothing shops and messy programming experience. About these things only a dust speck of talk can be true – but their own lives, heaven forbid! Among their own personal experiences they speak the absolute truth, littering the air with all sorts of private information, especially after a drink.
My freelance work building databases often compels me to meet such professionals on a monthly basis, sometimes weekly, if the bar floors are bare. From Rhode Island to Chicago to Santa Fe, most of these are held in dimly lit joints with a throng of white-collared young graduates leaning on a slick counter, drinks in hand.
Once, however, I found myself at a particularly congested coffee shop in Midtown, Memphis. Here, tucked in the far point of yellow painted walls, I sunk into a couch with a skull-sized mug in my left hand and I nearly told the truth. I almost said my name.
Good God, how terrifying.
It was a girl going on twenty-seven with a southern twang thick as honey. Ms. Cindy Evers, from Mount Juliet, the girl with two cats and who loved Tom and Jerry growing up.
As usual, it wasn’t difficult to keep her talking about herself. My formula is to follow each answer with a question. Thusly:
“And how did you get into creating chipmunk scarves and selling them online?”
“Well, I sell all sorts of animal-related merchandise. Scarves, hats, shirts. Soon we’ll have headbands and other jewelry. But you see I grew up hunting animals and keeping all sorts of pets. I even had a sloth for two weeks. Named it Jerry. But I started making crafts at about ten, when I my aunt gave me a little kit for my birthday.
“And you...I’m sorry, did you say your name?”
For a reason I couldn’t quite fathom, I nearly said it. The first hung of my tongue. Perhaps it was the sincerity and kindness in her voice, or simply the abundance of caffeine, that made my mouth overeager to speak. Luckily, I caught myself.
“I’m Jonathan. It must have been a winter birthday, to give you a kit like that. Something to do when it snows.”
“Oh no. My birthday is August 4th. Nothing but heat and humidity that time of year!”
She giggled and placed her mocha latte on a glass tabletop covered with poetry magazines. Ms. Evers smiles, and we talk like this – if only for a few more minutes. I ask a barrage of questions. And when she finishes, I remind her of my services and take my leave. At this gathering, there are less than thirty people, so I should be careful not to be overheard. Someone may recognize what I’m doing, after all.
And when I leave, all will remember my secure database programming. Two or three will leave with a number I gave them. Each may have a different name for me, but that is the cost of security.
When it comes out on the news someone lost their identity, that their entire account had been emptied, that no culprit emerged, at least I can sleep knowing that I’m safe. How could I support myself if my identity ran away from me? If someone could google me and find me? I lie to survive – as anyone would.
My freelance work building databases often compels me to meet such professionals on a monthly basis, sometimes weekly, if the bar floors are bare. From Rhode Island to Chicago to Santa Fe, most of these are held in dimly lit joints with a throng of white-collared young graduates leaning on a slick counter, drinks in hand.
Once, however, I found myself at a particularly congested coffee shop in Midtown, Memphis. Here, tucked in the far point of yellow painted walls, I sunk into a couch with a skull-sized mug in my left hand and I nearly told the truth. I almost said my name.
Good God, how terrifying.
It was a girl going on twenty-seven with a southern twang thick as honey. Ms. Cindy Evers, from Mount Juliet, the girl with two cats and who loved Tom and Jerry growing up.
As usual, it wasn’t difficult to keep her talking about herself. My formula is to follow each answer with a question. Thusly:
“And how did you get into creating chipmunk scarves and selling them online?”
“Well, I sell all sorts of animal-related merchandise. Scarves, hats, shirts. Soon we’ll have headbands and other jewelry. But you see I grew up hunting animals and keeping all sorts of pets. I even had a sloth for two weeks. Named it Jerry. But I started making crafts at about ten, when I my aunt gave me a little kit for my birthday.
“And you...I’m sorry, did you say your name?”
For a reason I couldn’t quite fathom, I nearly said it. The first hung of my tongue. Perhaps it was the sincerity and kindness in her voice, or simply the abundance of caffeine, that made my mouth overeager to speak. Luckily, I caught myself.
“I’m Jonathan. It must have been a winter birthday, to give you a kit like that. Something to do when it snows.”
“Oh no. My birthday is August 4th. Nothing but heat and humidity that time of year!”
She giggled and placed her mocha latte on a glass tabletop covered with poetry magazines. Ms. Evers smiles, and we talk like this – if only for a few more minutes. I ask a barrage of questions. And when she finishes, I remind her of my services and take my leave. At this gathering, there are less than thirty people, so I should be careful not to be overheard. Someone may recognize what I’m doing, after all.
And when I leave, all will remember my secure database programming. Two or three will leave with a number I gave them. Each may have a different name for me, but that is the cost of security.
When it comes out on the news someone lost their identity, that their entire account had been emptied, that no culprit emerged, at least I can sleep knowing that I’m safe. How could I support myself if my identity ran away from me? If someone could google me and find me? I lie to survive – as anyone would.
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