Late 1970s, New York, New York

By M. I. Clubb

I come to offer a bitter confession from the darkest recesses of my soul, from the dreariest shadows of my past.

My father, my own father, sent me out into the world to lie. To lie on his behalf, to present myself in a false light, to make representations about the condition of my own life that were pure prevarication and obfuscation and tergiversation and whatever else Roget could throw at you in the way of cheap, smarmy deception - all to save him a few dollars.

He and I still have a relationship, and I am now about as old as he was then; I have long since lost hope of receiving an apology. But his demons are his: I am the one who retailed the lies like so much snake oil.

I feel both snaky and oily in the backwash of this memory. I must speak so I can find some relief in confessing. How could I have been so docile?

Nineteen years old is all I was. An age far more tender than its wearer imagines. Showing a cocky face to the world but an unsure face to the mirror. Thinking you know all the answers when you have not yet even asked the right questions. Seeing the reality of the world only in the context of your fantasy. Laughing at the puny obstacles challenging your invincibility. Estimating the road to ultimate success to be a mere hop, skip, and jump along the yellow brick road. Too pretty to see your dark side, too muscular to see your weaknesses, too short in the tooth to see the truth of your own shortcomings.

Despite my utter perfection in all arenas of humanity, and the becoming humility with which I wore it, I was a hostage of one sad piece of fate. I did need to borrow my dad’s car. Either that or be unmasked to my peers as an unrivaled nerd.

Each time I essayed forth into his lair to coax the keys from his grasp, I had to brave the awful discomfort of being shrunk back to size for the duration of the experience. I hated it, but it was a necessary evil.

And then, suddenly, it turned into actual evil.

“Well,” my Dad says. “You know I have been in a few traffic accidents lately. Not my fault, just a run of bad luck. Also a bunch of tickets - you know the city is short on revenue, and they’re getting very aggressive.”

“Yes, Dad, I know.”

“In fact, the insurance company has notified me that they can only cover me in the ‘assigned risk’ category, which is very expensive. More than twice the normal price.”

“Sorry to hear that, Dad. Fortunately, I haven’t added any accidents or tickets of my own to the mix.”

“No, you have not, and I do appreciate that. But here is the catch.”

“What?”

“Under the assigned-risk category, they will not allow me to insure an extra driver in the home under the age of 25. Which means you will not be able to drive my car anymore.”

“Oh, no. Is there no way around this at all?”

“Well, actually, there is, but if you don’t want to do it, I understand. It is to transfer the car into your name and have you buy the insurance.”

“But aren’t the rates for drivers under age 25 sky-high? That is why I never tried to buy my own clunker and get my own insurance.”

“You’re right, but I researched it, and there is one solution: you can tell them you are married.”

“What… married at 19?”

“Yes, apparently, their actuarial tables show them that the extra sense of responsibility that comes from being married makes the young person into a safer driver. The rates are reasonable. You can be the main insured and add me as the extra driver.”

It sickens me to think that I said yes. The alternative of having no access to driving a car was intolerable at that age. When your own father is actually making the proposal, after having sold himself whatever hokey rationalizations and justifications, how easy is it to be strong and resist the bait? Not easy. But so what? I should have been strong anyway. That was my test, and I failed.

Now, we all know that Shakespeare hit it right on the head when he said a tangled web we weave when once we practice to deceive. The same holds true for an American expression: if you lie down with dogs, you will get up with fleas. Or the Jewish dictum: sin attracts sin. You do not have to be a rocket scientist to know that walking into an insurance agent’s office, claiming to be married at 19, was going to breed a mess of one color or another.

I did not see the crisis coming right away; it stole up on my blind side. At first, the agent, a 60ish man with 40 years of experience, asked no questions and put up no roadblocks. Whatever I told him, he wrote down. He called my wife at the number I gave him to confirm, and my stepmother played her role adequately. A check changed hands. I received a document certifying my new policy. The door was beckoning to me: I could finally close down this dog-and-pony show and live unhappily ever after.

But he stopped me cold. He was an old pro, and the next line came to him with the rehearsed fluidity of four decades as a salesman.

“And now, young man,” he pronounced with mock severity. “I will not allow you to leave this office until you set an appointment for me to meet you and your wife in your home to discuss life insurance. A young man who has taken on the responsibility of marriage must plan ahead to provide for his spouse in the event the unthinkable happens.”

There was only one way to deal with this ambush. He had pat answers to cover the usual protestations of youth and tight budgets. He must come to the home and explain to me and my bride all the options, most of which would call for surprisingly inexpensive premiums when the buyers are so young. No way I could shake him off using conventional warfare. I had no choice but to go nuclear.

“Look,” I said with a sneer. “As long as we have no children, if I go, she is no worse off than the day I found her. I have no obligation to leave her one dime more comfortable than before we met. Do I look like Santa Claus? Or the Sugar Daddy? She made her way before I came, and she can make it just the same after I go.”

I paused at the threshold and added a parting shot. “The day she becomes pregnant, I promise I will give you a call. Then I will worry about taking care of my family.”

My father may well have forgotten the episode after a quarter century. I certainly have never thrown it in his face, and I never will. It is what it is. He was small, he did not look beyond himself, but I was smaller still. Every time I look at him, I remember the pettiness and the fraudulence of our conspiracy, and it casts a pall on the many moments of excellence and truth we have shared.

This is a stain I hope can be expunged through penitence, if my heart can be strong enough to hold on to its repulsion - and not be entertained by the kick of maneuvering through the minefield undetected. And I can fix it for the future by never allowing, much less encouraging, a child of mine to engage in such chicanery.

I have never told this to a soul, never. I hate so much that we lied, sold our souls for a few pennies. But I despise most being reduced to the snarling callous brute who was willing to abandon his imaginary wife to face her untimely widowhood without a penny’s worth of a head start.

M. I. Clubb is a successful East Coast entrepreneur who no longer lies about anything but his name.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Thursday, June 28th, 2007 | Email This Post

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