Public Apology: Dear T.
Dear T.,
Sorry for telling you what I was thinking about when you asked me what I was thinking about.
There are times in life when we should lie. Junior year of college, in your bed, having just had sex: this was one of those times.
Your dorm room was so clean and neat, with pink stuff and flower prints. It smelled nice, too. Like soft spices. What had I done to deserve even being there? I'd smoked pot all day and picked my clothes out of a bathtub size pile on my floor. I did this every day. You were pretty and dressed nicely and seemed to have yourself much more together. By dint of beer and dumb luck, you'd started kissing me at a party a few weeks earlier. A friend of yours lived next to a friend of mine. We'd all gone out as a group, got very drunk, got to dancing. You stumbled back to my room with me and we fell into bed. I was painfully hung over the next day and I had to go to New Hampshire, to volunteer for Bob Kerrey's primary campaign, which turned out to be a mistake. I smiled the whole drive up, though, while my friends teased me. Women didn't fall into my bed as often as I would have liked them to.
There were reasons for this other than the pot smoking and beer drinking and my wearing dirty clothes. I had chosen to major in philosophy (shorter reading assignments, higher tolerance for utter bullshit in class discussions) and become deeply invested in telling the truth. Too invested. I had read this book, I And Thou by Martin Buber, that talked about the great importance of being open and honest and thoughtful in communication, that this is the only way to show respect for other people as our equals.
At least, that's what I thought it was about. I probably misunderstood a lot, but I got off on it. I started seeing telling the truth as the most important thing in the world. Truth, as I envisioned it existing in some a priori ideal form, was the ultimate good, the closest thing to god, I suppose, that I believed in. Honesty was the noblest thing a human could aspire to, a spiritual duty. I thought that any lie, no matter how small or how justified by earthly circumstances, was essentially wrong.
I remember arguing that, had I lived in the apartment downstairs from Anne Frank in Amsterdam in 1942, though I thought that I would have probably lied to Nazi soldiers if they came asking questions, I also thought that, in the grand scheme of things, my doing so would have hurt the universe in some perhaps indiscernible, but important way. (So embarrassing to think about now. Like, the sound of my lying voice was going to bore a hole in the sky and burn a "Minus 1" mark on the collective soul-a glowing blue orb of pure truth.)
So, while I didn't feel compelled to voice my every true feeling-I didn't go around telling strangers their shirts were ugly-I tried hard to never lie. Not even a little bit. Needless to say, it was impractical. And exhausting. One time a new friend, Jim, had come over to smoke pot in my room. While I was packing the pipe, I mentioned that another friend, Todd might be calling.
"Oh, tell him I'm not here if he calls," Jim said.
I forget why. Nothing important. But before I could explain to Jim how difficult this seemingly easy request would be for me, the phone rang.
"Hey Todd," I said, as Jim held his finger to his lips.
Todd asked me what I was doing.
"Nothing. Hanging out." I paused, struggling, and said, "Jim's here."
Jim's jaw dropped and I mouthed him an "I'm sorry." After I hung up, he asked me why I had done that. When I explained, he thought I was pulling his leg.
"Come on," he said. "You never lie?"
Then he cracked up, like I had just told a good joke. It does seem pretty funny, looking back.
But what a terribly selfish way to behave. What business was it of mine if Jim didn't want Todd to know where he was? Like I couldn't have endured something so trivial in order to spare him what must have been a bit of discomfort, no matter how minor, the next time they spoke. I was living by a code that amounted to imposing my beliefs on other people. Like a religious zealot. Yuck.
And you, T., you got the worst of it, probably, of anyone. We were having fun, sleeping together every other night or so. The kind of good, healthy, casual fun lots of co-eds enjoy often, and often with the same partner for more than a couple weeks at a time. But here's a truth that I'm more aware of now than I was then: I was still in love with my old girlfriend from high school, who had dumped me and broken my heart more than a year before.
One would think having new sex with different people ought to be curative in this regard. But these things are rarely simple. Despite how stoned and ragamuffin I imagine I looked to others, I couldn't really do anything casually at that point in my life. Not even have fun. And because of the vision quest I took myself to be on at this middle-range liberal arts school in Connecticut, I brought my hang ups into your bed.
We were lying there, sweaty and quiet, our heads on your pillows when you said, "What are you thinking about?"
Now, as notorious as this question is-I believe it was Andrew Dice Clay who once said, "If I wanted you to know, I'd be talking…"-it really shouldn't be that big a deal. And it's understandable that it would be asked. It's quiet. Two people getting to know each other, in an intimate situation, the silence starts to take on a weight, you want to make conversation.
It shouldn't have been that big a deal, even if I didn't want to tell you what I was thinking. I could have said, "Nothing," for example. That would have been fine. Or I could have just made something up, switched my focus to another thought: "It smells nice in here." "Who painted that picture of the flowers?" "I'm supposed to read such-and-such for class tomorrow." Whatever.
It was really not okay for me to leave the question hanging for as long as I did and then say, "I was thinking I was worried about your feelings being hurt. Because I don't know that I see this relationship lasting very long."
I thought I was being good and noble and respecting you more as a person by telling the whole, honest, undiluted truth. I was not. I was being an asshole.
Sincerely,
Dave
Awwww Buber's gotten me into some shit. . .
I am actually kind of mad at college-junior Dave Bry right now! That's not my usual response to Public Apology.
But what an ass!
Strongly agree.
yeah, college-junior you was a dick. but wendy metzger says you were nice in school, so matbe that buys you redemption.
Yeah, this one really requires the apology. Some others, not so much.
I totally thought you were going to say something about her vag.
I thought he was going to say that he was thinking about his ex-girlfriend, but yours is a gazillion times better.
Totally. Kicking myself double now…
this truth and honesty business has been weighing on me a lot lately. white lies are the glue holding society together so let's not be radically honest because really, it's just self-serving. plus, lies are more fun.
"Always telling the truth" presumes that we capable of doing so, even when we try. Hubris, etc.
Okay, so (ironically?) this may be hard to believe, but I actually find it incredibly difficult to lie. In general I am a very direct person, in a way that some people appreciate and others interpret as bitchy. And I'm rarely ever inclined to lie, although I do try to be polite even when it means glossing over the stark truth. But on the rare occasion when I really must lie, I can't. Not because of my personal ethics or morals, but because it's physically impossible. My body sabotages me so thoroughly that it's laughably obvious that I'm lying.
The weird part is, I majored in creative writing in college and at one point I was a pretty decent actress. But I'm like fucking Pinocchio, for real. So far, this has not helped me get ahead in life.
It's a confidence thing, for sure. But like Constanza said, "It's not a lie if you believe it."
That may be a different topic altogether.
@Contains: see 'Palin, Sarah.'
I hope you post these to your Facebook page.
myfanwy likes this.
"By dint of beer and dumb luck" is the motto of a state I would like to live in.
So, Wisconsin?
And yet, here you are … telling the truth again. Commenters are mad. T's reliving a repressed nightmare. Choire and Balk will probably avoid eye contact. Have you learned nothing?
Are you "Jim" or "Todd?"
Someone took their Kant very much to heart.
When will women learn never to utter the phrase "What are you thinking?"?
(The punctuation of that stressed me out.)
Everyone's at fault in this damn story.
If they are smart, after someone does this to them in their pink ruffled single bed when they are college freshmen…
Dave Bry, you should track her down and make sure she sees this, just in case the lesson didn't take.
Actually, allow me to amend that question, so as not to be perceived as anti-woman (I am VERY MUCH pro-woman):
When will HUMANS learn never to utter the phrase "What are you thinking?"?
(The punctuation of that is still stressing me out.)
I never ask this. However I like them big and stupid so I doubt the answer would be anything of interest.
REAL DUMB
I doubt anyone I've spent time in bed with has ever read this blog so I am safe.
"What are you thinking about?"
"… swimming pools…"
The way he grabbed and threw me, it really got me hot;
The way he growled and bit me, I hope he had his shots!
I still prefer this one though: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gVie2K-mMtc
tnx mathnet. I had never heard that before. Any opus from the Julie Brown oeuvre is a delight.
Oh. Have been there. Have done that. Don't even have Martin Buber as an excuse. Oh, the worst.
If you had saved Anne Frank, we would not have 'Holland, 1945' Dave Bry.
Needs lest Post Secret.
damn damn damn
Needs mo-lest Post Secret.
/fixed
God, you're worse than Foster.
I refer to the books of Judith Martin, Miss Manners, my hero, for all things philosophical that float into etiquette. And she would tell Mr. Buber to please STFU, but in a very polite way. Miss Manners is all about drawing the line between necessary truths and those truths the principal purpose of which is to hurt others. Junior college you is on the grey line ccnfused as you were by this twerp who could not possibly have had anyone bother to attend his funeral, if he is already dead. But she would probably like your apology but be abhorred with your hygiene.
Dear god, I haven't thought about Miss Manners in twenty years. For a time, my mother chose to read out of one of her books to my sister and me before bed for a stint, but we received it so sarcastically that she just gave up. Come to think of it, I think she stopped reading to us before bed after that! Now I am sad. More wine.
Blah, Ms. M would not approve of drunken illiteracy!
"What are you thinking" is also the single most annoying narrative device of the Twilight series.