The First Time I Told a Lie, 1988, Ben Thomas

From MemoryArchive

Who: Ben Thomas
What: The First Time I told a lie
When: 1988
Where: Boise, ID

I pressed my face against the cold pane of glass of the front windows of the dining room looking out across street - something I had always done when gripped by anticipation. My mother informed me earlier that morning that I was going to have a new friend to play with, named Peter. Peter was a year younger than I, and liked playing with Legos just as I did. I began to breathe onto the glass and later felt obligated to doodle in the mist it left on the window. An obligation I promptly fulfilled and was just as promptly chastised for fulfilling. My mother yelled something about streaks on the window and voiced some other concerns I could not begin to understand. I sunk back and sulked away from the window pane having been deprived of my childish fun. I was in this state of mild frustration when Peter and his mother arrived in their Volkswagen van. The excitement of my new friend’s arrival was overshadowed by their strangely shaped car. The flat fronted van challenged my preconceptions of automobiles. These were astounding revelations to a child of my age. I was so entranced by the auto I did not notice Peter and his mother walking up the steps to my front porch where my mother and I stood, while I still entirely transfixed by their car. My mother tried vainly to pull me out of my trance before introducing me to Peter.

“Here they come” she proudly announced giving their arrival the importance she though it deserved. When the introductions came, my confusion of the car caused me to ask the question that had so completely held my attention for the last 45 seconds, skipping even a basic “hello.”

“What’s wrong with your car?” I asked my new friend demonstrating my absolute childish honesty. Peter confusedly looked to his Mother who in turn looked to mine. The two matriarchs exchanged silent knowing glances and some how decided, without words, that it would be best to ignore my question.

“Benjamin, this is Peter,” my mother pushed me forward as my counterpart received the same gentle push to social interaction. Holding the door open, my mother ushered us all inside. Peter and I headed off to the family room to play with my Legos. We played until our plastic bricks no longer provided amusement, and returned to the living room where our mothers sat. They regarded our presence with benign neglect, hoping we would return to our diversions.

I started to cry. I don’t know why. I wish I could rationalize it today or remember what malicious thought was going on in my head. When the mothers asked me why I was crying I pointed at my new playmate and said in my best puppy-dog quaking voice, “He ….he.. hit me”.

He had not hit nor intended to hit me. He did not show any violent tendencies of any kind in our time spent together.

“Peter!!” His mom yelled and grabbed him."

“Benjamin,” my mom gasped, “Are you ok?”

His mother simultaneously grabbed his wrist and howled, “How could you... go wait in the car!” pulling him out the door.

I stood absorbing all the attention I could from my fib, reveling in the pain my false accusation had caused. I say him cry out in innocence and anguish. When I knew neither of our maternal units were looking I smiled at him and took pleasure in his discomfort.

I have no idea why I did it. He didn’t deserve it, and I shouldn’t have gotten as much satisfaction out of it as I did. The details of the incident still haunt me; his face, his cries, the confused look on his face as he was pulled out the door, the embarrassment of his mother, and the undeserved empathy mine gave me. The knowledge of how the confused morality of my childhood injured another person is still with me to this day.