Part 8 - Phil's Mother

“It’s not healthy, living like you do,” said Phil’s mother. “You need some companionship. You should take a hip-hop dance class or something.”

She stood with her hand on her hip, holding out a glass of orange juice.

Phil looked up from the newspaper. His mother was careful not to say things like, “You’re 34 and you don’t have a girlfriend – are you lying about not being gay?” but he knew what she was thinking.

“I might do that,” he said, “But I don’t have a place to keep a dog. My building doesn’t even allow small animals.”

“I said take a dance class.” Phil’s mother was accustomed to his not listening to what she was saying, per se. She was patient about it. He had a lot on his mind.

“But I’ve been thinking about moving closer to the botanical gardens. Maybe I can get a house,” he went on.

“What about your classes?” asked his mother.

Yes, Phil was lying about his job teaching music theory at the university. He had been offered the job, but the thought of putting on a necktie and standing up in front of a bunch of bored freshmen horrified him. He had decided to do odd jobs, instead, until the right thing came along, whatever that was. He did feel a little guilty about lying to his mom, but not really. He did it to save her the stress of worrying about him, and to save himself the irritation of explaining it all, over and over. To him, this seemed fair.

Lying was like using a credit card. He knew fully well that he would have to pay it back with interest, but the short-term convenience was worth the long-term sacrifice. He didn’t use credit cards, actually, but that wasn’t the point. He wouldn’t have lied about being a drug addict, or about stealing, or to get himself out of some bad situation that he should take responsibility for. But lying about something harmless, like making a living doing odd jobs when you were a genius, seemed forgivable to him.

Anyone who is a genius knows that it’s not particularly enjoyable. Phil’s therapist had explained a phenomenon that many brilliant people suffer from, called the “imposter syndrome.” When you are gifted, people shower you with attention and love for it, and soon you equate your worthiness as a human being with your ability to deliver the gift. You begin to dread that you will lose the gift, or that you won’t deliver to people’s expectations. Recognizing yourself as a mere mortal, you feel like you’re stuck in a genius costume, living a lie, and that somebody is bound to find out. She showed him a cartoon where an elephant is on stage, sweating bullets, with a violin in his hand. The elephant is thinking, “What the hell am I DOING? For I’m a pianist, for Christ’s sake!”

That was all over now, though. What had happened, had put an end to Phil’s worries. They say that this isn’t too unusual, subconsciously shooting yourself in the foot so that you can stop the genius march. It had been years ago. He was better. But not well enough to tell the truth to his mother.

“I can still take the bus” he said, as a delayed response to the question about how he'd teach his classes if he lived across town near the botanical garden.

To make sure he didn’t get mixed up, he had concentrated for a while on translating “your job, your students, your classes” into “your job, the coffeeshop, and the posters,” but now it was second nature and he didn’t need to think about it. He figured that this must be the way that real liars functioned. They just built a little off-ramp in their brain so that any questions relating to the lied-about topic could automatically exit to Lie Town. It was dangerous, he realized, but he didn’t care.

Phil drew the line at actually voicing lies, though. He never said “my students, or my teaching job.” It was more like he was playing Santa Claus. Instead of saying, “Santa is real, and he’s going to give you a present,” he’d have said, “Somebody is going to leave you a surprise.” It was true, while still promoting the lie. Phil drank the orange juice and got up to go to work. He was wearing a sweater that had been shrunken rather unevenly, and jeans that were a hair too short for his long legs. His hair stuck up in the back, obviously where he had slept on it.

“Is that what you wear to work?” his mom asked, as he went out the front door with his messenger bag over his shoulder.

“They don’t mind,” he replied.