Lying Street Walkers

It's a beautiful day in Memphjus, the seat of Periwinkle County. 80 degrees, high sun, light breeze. A perfect day for a walk to Smitty Park, so Randall Nathan did it.

He has to walk city streets for a few blocks before he hits the squirrel trains of the park. Many other people were out walking, but he was the only on the sidewalks. The others walked or jogged in the street. The sidewalk was smoother and cleaner and a whole lot safer, especially when ninety-three-year-old Bessie Bandervilt and sixteen-year-old Jeremy Sisson drove by. Bessie had a bee in her bonnet that needed release, and Jeremy had a friend in New Jersey who needed texting. But there the lyers were, walking and running in the street.

Yes, lyers, Randall groused. They were lying about who they are. They were claiming to be athletes, people who have to walk in the street because the sidewalks can't hold them, but none of these were athletes. The sidewalk would hardly have known that they were there. But they were lying to themselves, mostly, and to anyone else who might see them, saying, "See, I'm an athlete, because I have to be in the street. It's worth taking the chance of getting killed to be able to say I'm better than I really am."

Half of our lies, Randall thought, are to keep us out of trouble, but the other half are to get us into trouble, by making us look better than we are, creating expectations that we can't live up to.

He explained all this to Claire when he got home. She made him drink an IBC rootbeer and lie down.