my friend,” he said, “I’m here to tell you that I took offense. I still take offense.”
Ordinarily, I would’ve tried to smooth things over. But he had referred to Timmy as my “fucking kid.” He had referred to me as his friend.
I told him he was a monster.
I told him that one day I would write about him.
“In that case,” the man said (and I’m paraphrasing here, omitting two very vulgar words), “according to Shakespeare, that would be a tale told by an idiot—by a lying idiot—which is you.”
I did not hit him.
In fact, much to my karmic credit, I drew a breath and stepped back. Fiction writers always lie, I said—way too gently. They lie for a living. They lie for money. They lie for the fun of it. They invent stuff and try to convince people it actually occurred—that’s the job, that’s the joy. Besides, aren’t the first words of a child always miraculous? Always beyond belief?
“Maybe so,” the man said, “but why not just give us the actual miracle, not some made-up bullshit? Why not give us your kid’s real first words?”
“Because it would’ve been dull—you wouldn’t have felt anything.”
“That’s all you can say?”
“Well, no,” I told him. “I guess nobody would’ve believed me—not Timmy’s actual first words. So why not invent something amusing?”
“It wasn’t in the least amusing,” he muttered. “It was manipulative.”
“You didn’t laugh?”
“Of course I did. That’s what made it manipulative. And by the way, in case you don’t know, your books make my students feel exactly the same way. Totally scammed.”
I nodded. “So you teach?”
“Most definitely, and at a very respectable university.”
“And do you also write fiction?”
“Certainly so. Superb fiction.”
I should’ve ended it there, but I didn’t.
“Well, listen,” I said, “have you considered trying your hand at nonfiction? Maybe a book about automotive repair?”
The man glared. “I take that as a condescending assault on my person. I’ll be reporting you accordingly—you can count on it. Plus, I suppose you’re too much of a liar to tell me what your kid actually said.”
“Does it matter?”
“Ha!” he said. “You’re asking if truth matters?”
“But we’re talking about a story, aren’t we? Wasn’t it clear that the whole thing was—?”
“Fabrication!” he snarled.
I looked around for assistance. People were staring at us without staring at us.
“All right,” I said, “I’ll tell you the truth, but it won’t be funny. Basically, most of it happened just the way I described it, except of course I changed Timmy’s dialogue. But the toy rattlesnake, that part was real.”
“I knew that,” the man said sharply.
“The nurse was real, too. Timmy had an ear infection.”
“I assumed as much.”
“And the doctor—he was very real. Courtly, convivial. Dressed for golf.”
“Who cares? All that’s obvious. Get to what your kid really said.”
I was frightened, I’ll admit. But I was thrilled by the certainty that someday (which is right now) I would exact revenge on this literal-minded Philistine.
“Okay,” I said, “Timmy’s first words were—you won’t believe this—a full sentence, perfect grammar, clear as a bell. He looked up from his toy rattlesnake and said, ‘Daddy, we should go find a guy in a straw hat and tie him up and murder him.’ Verbatim quote. First utterance ever. I warned you it wouldn’t be funny.”
The man peered at me.
“Is that a threat?”
“No. It’s a miracle.”
The man removed his hat, straightened to his full height, and said, very quietly, “Your son has a terrible, terrible father.”
When Timmy began to speak, Meredith was in the habit of calling him “honey,” which the boy took to mean that others were also to be called “honey.”
The mailman frowned at this.
The Walmart cashier, a humorless Texan, squinted at my son with a touch of irritation.
“Bye, honey,” Timmy called over his shoulder.
Timmy, I want you to consider something: George Washington was once declared a terrorist in the halls of Parliament. America’s beloved patriot had become King George’s detested criminal. It is not just beauty that resides in the eye of the beholder.
Also, Timmy, whenever you glance at a five-dollar bill, I want you to remember that Abraham Lincoln engaged in the sexual act. He had four children, after all, and this required ejaculation, and during those exclamatory moments, Lincoln almost certainly was not contemplating the Gettysburg Address. The man on the five-dollar bill is not the whole man.
I want you to bear in mind that truth has no patience for what is tasteful and what is not.
And I want you to ask: Is one-kabillionth of the truth the truth? Is three-quarters of the truth the truth? In fact, is the whole truth, to which we are pledged in courtrooms, ever truly the whole truth, and if so, how do you know? Can you read minds? Were you present at the creation? Does sunlight come equipped with earbuds through which it whispers to you, “I am truth, I am truth”? Do wars whisper,
