THE PANIC LIAR

David sucks at stopping conversations. When he has the opportunity to make a declarative statement that will allow him to be able to walk away? He can’t do it.


Thursday, March 12, right before it was announced that schools would be closed and the shit had yet to actually hit the fan, David was antsy to get home. He was in rehearsals with his students for the student-written, one-act play festival. They rehearsed three afternoons a week. At 4:30 p.m., the last day before March Break, with the exuberance of teenage drama kids, they were champing at the bit to go through their plays “Just one more time, Sir?”


“Guys,” said David. “No can do. I’ve gotta get home.” (This is where he should have stopped talking.)  “It’s my turn to cook dinner. It’s Perogy Night!”


(There is no Perogy Night.)


“Perogy Night?!?  Really?  Cool! Do you make them yourself?”

“I do!” (He doesn’t.)


“Really? The dough and everything?”


“Oh yeah!” (Nope.)


“How do you cook them?”


“Oh, I boil them up first and then like to brown them in a frying pan.” (Really? You don’t just take them from the freezer and nuke them and brown them?)


“What are you filling them with tonight?”


“Cheddar, bacon and chive.” (And chive?!?)


David is a panic liar. He can’t do small talk. He invariably says something interesting enough that there will always be follow up questions. Witness what happened when he bought a suit.

When I asked him how the perogy debacle had manifested, he said, “I didn’t want to tell them that the thought of having to watch them rehearse it one more time would make my brain implode.”


“You were trying to be nice.”


“I was trying to be nice.”

“That’s a good thing.”


“Yeah?”


“Yeah. Next time though, don’t tell them that you have to go home to feed your alpaca.”