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HERE
It was a Sunday evening at a supper date with her family. I sat at the
table. My girl thought
I was being too quiet, too much like a 'droid among humans. I thought
that things were fine.
They were, sort of, until she began to try to get me to butter up her
mama. Her mama sort
of liked me; the rest of her family thought I was an odd fish, the
half-droid boy.
"Sam?" my girl asked. "See these biscuits? They're made from scratch.
Ever eaten better
biscuits than my mom's?"
If I could have, I would have given her mom a nice, friendly lie, right
there, right then. It is
difficult for me to tell a fib. While chewing, almost impossible. I
used to be able to stutter
or mutter, and get pass the moment. I never could lie. When I tried,
my windpipe stopped-
up and I choked, and I feared suffocation. Maybe, it was my girl and
her family's style or
manner, or just a normal human trait to fib. I guess, when dining socially,
to some people telling
lies come as easy as breathing. These people can lie without a flinch,
an ability far beyond me.
If only I could have stuttered, belched, or mouthed nothing and kept
chewing. To me my girl's
mother's biscuits were no big deal. I sat stiff for seconds, struggled
to make an amicable reply.
I twisted my tongue, tried to get a lie out. I glanced at my girl.
She looked lovely. Her little
hiney squirmed in her chair a little, not nearly as much as it squirmed
the night before when
she sat on my lap. Later, I swatted her little hiney a little as we
made gentle love. Her eyes
got big and very beautiful. Now they grew sad, but pretty. Her eyes
reminded me of the
sadness that I first saw in my mom's eyes, when we lost my brother
before I was one.
I think that my mom's eyes, was one reason why I remember so much, and
could even
before my operation. I recall things as far back as when I was in a
stroller and still crawling.
I want to hold on to the memory of my mom's eyes when I saw them always
happy and
never sad. I digressed.
My girl's little groan and her under the table kick returned me to the
point. I stammered
and I knew that my stammering upset my girl more. I looked away into
the faces of her
family and they glared back as though they were staring at a loser
whose head had a half
brain.
"What's the deal, man?" my girl's father said. "My wife takes pride in her biscuits."
I "talk" out in my head to myself when things are not going well. A
voice inside my head,
a machine-like consciousness, said, Oh, Sam, by the way, a lie would
work. Keep it simple.
Tell them you love the biscuits. Why be snooty and make your life unbearably
complex? I
saw nothing special about my girl's mom's cooking. I couldn't find
a marvelous lie that
could cover my feelings. To me, store-brought biscuits were just as
good, and sliced bread
tasted better. My girl's father looked at
me like I was very bad, had done nasty, awful things.
"What's it with you?" he asked. "Can't you be polite? Does rudeness make you feel good?"
"He's not like this." I heard my girl defend me. "Something's wrong."
That face that I loved was very bright red. Half of me would have loved
to do whatever she
wanted. If I had time enough to think, I would have thought of a way
out.
"Is it because of his job?" her mom asked. "Stress?"
No, stress wasn't the blame, but the conflict between my half-droid
-half-human brain. My
brain kept locking up my jaw everytime I tried to force out a friendly
lie in praise of my girl's
mom's biscuits. I was a Boy Scout in my boyhood, and the Boy Scout's
code of total
truthfulness weighed heavy. My conscious bore down upon my thoughts
like a burden,
and kept stumbling. I mumbled, involuntarily, "A Boy Scout does not
lie. I must not lie." I
said it and hated saying it, and hated myself, but I knew I had no
choice. That is the strength
of my compulsion for truth-telling. No small part of a lie can I tell
even to please my true love.
I must say what I feel.
"What? Insulting my mama's biscuits is boy scout-ish?" my girl's older sister demanded I answer.
"No," I said.
"No . . ."
"Being a nut isn't a quality that will endear you to this family, " my girl's sister said.
"Hush," her mother told her.
As for me -- I've said not a thing. I stumbled and bumbled like a tongue-
tied fool. I'd said
nothing distinctly, for certain, I hadn't. I thought that maybe I was
getting dumped on unfairly,
for nothing.
"Why are you sitting at this table insulting my mama's biscuits?" my girl rolled her eyes.
Me? Not me, I said in thought. I looked at her, wide-eyed.
"You've got nerve to look at me like that!" She stood, said, "Get out!"
I asked her, still speaking with my eyes: What did I do?
"You're a creep," her brother replied in a jerky way.
My girl began to sniffle. "You come into my family's house and embarrass
me . . . " She
broke into sobs, "Just go!"
Oh, I loved her. I feel it everyday. I loved that girl, not in a thin
sexual way. My love was a
self- sacrificing love. With her I discovered the rush, the thrill
that surmounts nearly anything,
the sensations, the irrational joy that is so important. I would have
self-sacrificed, doing many
things for her, and though I tried and tried, I could not beat everything.
I could not overcome
my two-half brain. My girl's father stood; he added to his daughter's
order that I make an exit.,
"Boy! Go and with no long goodbyes!"
"But . . ." I stuttered. I'd found my voice.
My girl looked away. Her father's face hardened. I saw violence brewing
in his eyes, and all
because I couldn't get a lie out of my mouth about his wife's biscuits.
He looked at me as if I
was a stain, a hole in space from where maggots were crawling. He was
so angry that his hands
shook. My mind with its total memory recall unreeled images of media
clips of all sorts of horrid
crimes. My brain compared the faces of the villains of those crimes
with my girl's father's face.
The anger in his face compared with theirs, and I knew that I should
leave. My brain spoke
automatic speech, justifying . . . -- "I agree, I better leave, now.
"
As I got up to go, I heard my girl shout. "My father is no villain!"
And she screamed a curse
at me.
(c) Copyrighted 1996 by Franchot Lewis
All Rights Reserved
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