I have been lying for fifteen years. Every day, when I kiss my wife on her strawberry cheek, I lie. When I pick up the dew-speckled paper from our bentgrass lawn, I lie. When I compliment Mrs. Shasty on her carefully pruned hedges – well, do I need to say it?
I work in a lie factory. My ID card reads “Clayton Boothshoulder, a man with green eyes who loves corn-on-the-cob.” My eyes are blue-grey.
I sit at a desk made of plastic wood-grain and type nonsense into a computer equipped with the latest nonsense-reading technologies. At ten fifteen, my boss, Mr. Hamilton, tells me what an acceptable job I’m doing, and that “What we do here will be of utmost importance in several generations.” He is always drinking Chai Tea. I get the feeling he’s a coffee man.
One day, when the sun was hung with all the care of a Christmas ornament, the phone rang. It was Sunday: the phone never rings on Sunday. I panicked, couldn’t breathe, got a paper bag, and nearly blacked out. The paper bag smelled like croissants. When I had recovered, I answered the phone:
“Hell- hello?”
“Is this Mr. Hamilton?”
“I don’t believe so. Let me check.” I took my ID card out of my wallet. I tried to read it, but the words seemed jumbled together.
“Well?” The voice was getting impatient. I got the feeling it had some power over my life. I didn’t want to anger this voice.
“I can’t seem to read my ID currently. All I can tell you is that I have green eyes.”
There was typing on the other end of the line. The voice coughed. “Yes, you’re definitely Mr. Hamilton.”
I waited for a moment, thinking that the voice would continue. After an uncomfortable eternity, I asked, “So, what does that mean?”
“Nothing. Just confirming. Keep up the acceptable job.”
Click.
My office was spinning, and I sat down in a chair. I wanted a jar of honey, but quickly dismissed such a foolish notion.
A few months later, the company building disappeared. Our work was finished before it even began. The ramifications would not be felt for several generations.
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