Truths and Lies

Abstract

Truths and Lies Ira Sukrungruang (bio) "You must suffer me to go my own dark way." —Dr. Jekyll, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde The person I used to be walked and talked and lived as if he did not believe any harm would befall him. I speak of him as a being outside of myself, fixed in the third-person point of view. He exists in the movie of memory, a stranger who fascinates and thrills and frightens. The person I used to be is like that new kid in school: the one you obsessed over; the one you might have secretly watched, and then, behind the closed bedroom door, you might have tried to emulate him—the way he spoke, the way he carried himself, and that smile, that one-dimpled smile. You also knew to keep your distance because he was what your mother warned you of: "That one—there is something in his eyes." The person I used to be is everything I am not. His walk is not my walk, not the slouch, the downcast eyes, the loud lumbering and shuffling steps. No, he possessed an authoritative click, always wearing shoes with hard heels. Shoes that were heavy like concrete blocks; if you could carry your weight and the weight of those shoes, if you could walk with an air of superiority in them, then you were superior. The sound of those shoes on hard pavement—each click, an end-stopped line. Each click, an alarm [End Page 125] of cocksure certainty. Each click, a narcissistic pronouncement of arrival. "Take notice, motherfuckers. I am beautiful." The person I used to be says motherfuckers as easily as he says the word beautiful as easily as he says love as easily as he says kill. Everything is easy for him. I watch the person I used to be, in his jeans and T-shirt, in a baseball hat with frayed brim, but he does not look at me. He does not see me. He does not see any of the other me's—all those people and personas with distinct personalities, with their own languages, with their own philosophical beliefs. We are not here. And even if we were, we don't think he would like us. ________ We are playing the game Two Truths and One Lie—we—this random group of strangers at a new job orientation. I spend a few minutes making awkward small talk, but there always comes a moment when the conversation stops, and we take awkward sips from our drinks and rock on our feet, and the index finger of my right hand picks away at the cuticles of my thumb. Someone says, Let's play a game—you know, to get to know each other. And then the murmur of hesitant agreement. The game is simple. Tell two truths about yourself and one lie. We have to figure out the lie. It's a guessing game, yes, but it also about first impressions. I don't like ice breakers, but I like this one. I like this one because what people assume is the lie tells me more about them than it does any truth about me. Here are the statements I give about myself: 1. I used to be a top tennis player in the state of Illinois. 2. I was fortunate enough to see Michael Jordan play at the United Center. 3. As an adolescent, I dyed my hair shamrock green. "This is a good one," someone says. There is a collective silence of thought, every eye in the room aimed at me. To suss out the lie, they are gathering what little I've offered in the small talk preceding this game. They look at me, at my 300+-pound body, my thick-framed professor glasses, my pressed chinos and striped dress shirt under a sweater vest, and my comfortable leather Kenneth Cole loafers. [End Page 126] "You mentioned you were from Chicago," someone says. "What are you? Late thirties? Early forties? That puts you in Jordan's heyday." "Who's Jordan?" someone said. "Greatest basketball player of all time." Some concur. Some shrug...