I don’t like lying. It makes me feel… kind of icky. And it stays with me, for some reason. Even years later, my stupid conscience will tap me on the shoulder out of the blue and make sure I don’t forget.

Conscience:  Hey, buddy! Remember that time in Houston, in August 2005, when you told that really pathetic lie? That was so uncalled for! So wrong! I bet that still bothers you. 

Me:  Shut up, Conscience. Leave me alone. Anyway, I don’t really remember that. 

Conscience:  That’s okay. I remember it like it was yesterday! You were at the conference center with that guy and that woman from MD Anderson… 

Me:  La-la-la-la-la, I-am-not-listening-to-Conscience-because-he-is-very-annoying-and-no-one-likes-him! 

But you have to admit, sometimes lying is quite useful. Sometimes, it’s even good. In fact, I’d argue that lying is pretty much a mandatory skill to keep available in case of exigent circumstances.

For example, there was the time I was invited to visit a woman at a tiny cabin in a forest, on a mountain a few hours’ drive from New York. I was extremely interested in this woman. Her name was Karen. She was very strange – in a very appealing way. The kind of quirky (and a little bit crazy) that attracts you for reasons you can’t explain very well.

I responded to her invitation with alacrity. I hung up the phone, loosened my tie, grabbed my jacket from the back of the door, bid my secretary good weekend (on a Thursday), got in my car and blithely ignored posted speed limits.

I made excellent time, but still arrived in the vicinity of her cabin after dark. Now I had a problem. The directions I had scribbled down involved turning up a dirt road identified by trees and landmarks I simply couldn’t see at night. Worse luck, my phone informed me that there was no mobile coverage here. Well, no guts, no glory, right? I picked a likely dark driveway and proceeded. Trial and error would have to suffice.

Unfortunately, my error led to a trial of sorts.

A few hundred yards in, I came to a substantial home that was clearly not Karen’s. Time to turn around. Once I did, however, my headlights illuminated a substantial homeowner. Pointing a 12 gauge over/under at my windshield with one hand, and wielding a can of beer with the other.

When the gentleman and his blunderbuss strolled up to the driver’s side, I felt it would be polite to roll down my window. This made it easier for him to actually move the barrels into my car, halting a comfortable four inches from my face.

“Good evening, sir,” said I, smiling warmth and unconcern at him, while parts of my body that are supposed to be external withdrew inside me. “I wonder if you can help me.”

“You gonna need some help, alright,” he said.

It seemed best not to respond directly to that declaration, so I continued: “I’m a bit lost. I’m looking for Karen Samuels’ place. I think it’s around here somewhere, but I’m having a hard time finding it in the dark. Any idea where she lives?”

The man was silent. He stared at me. The end of the gun swayed gently before my smiling teeth. I was acutely conscious that I was wearing a suit, surely stinking of the city.

“No Karen Samuels around here,” he said, finally. “There’s a Karen Lukovich next property over.” He gestured with his beer.

Lukovich? That didn’t ring any bells.

“That wouldn’t be a little log cabin with white shutters and red Adirondack chairs out front, would it?” I asked.

“That’s the place,” he said. “What you want with Karen?”

I was about to tell the truth – that I was here for purposes of romance and fornication. But fortunately, I have a little Operations Center in my brain that is smarter than I am, and it often helps me by telling me when to lie.

The staff in the Operations Center were a little concerned about this “Lukovich” business, so they interrupted the signals sending honesty to my tongue.

“Insurance,” I said, dishonestly.

“Insurance,” he repeated, taking a chug of his beer.

“Yes, indeed. You know… uh… life, health, fire, flood… tornado, tsunami, insurrection.”

“What kinda ‘rection?” he asked, watching me closely.

“Um… civil disorder?” I tried. “Anyway, you can’t be too well prepared, no sir! Gotta have insurance. And that’s me. I’m an insurance broker. I’ve come all the way from… from Philadelphia… to explain insurance options to Karen.”

“To Karen and her husband, ya mean,” he corrected me.

Husband? Husband! I had a small stroke. I swore silently. My eyes crossed, focused on and entranced by the 12 gauge holes at the end of the gun in front of my nose. But the stalwart Operations Center managed to feed me more lines.

“Thaaat’s right! To Karen and her husband… Mr. Lukovich.”

“Paul’s his name!” the shotgun man barked at me.

“Yes! Paul Lukovich. Paul and Karen Lukovich. The Lukoviches. Insurance for the Lukoviches. The Lukoviches need insurance.”

The Operations Center informed me that I was babbling and needed to shut up.

I was considering asking the man if he might now point his artillery anywhere other than at my beloved visage, but he wasn’t finished with me yet.

“Paul’s a good man,” he said.

“Yes, he is,” I agreed immediately. “Very good man. Tremendous fellow. Salt of the Earth.”

“Got a pretty little wife,” he continued.

“Is she? Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” I assured him.

“You wanna behave yourself around a woman like that,” he advised.

“That’s certainly true, sir,” I said. “Always be a gentleman. Just… just try to sell some insurance, then go on your merry way. Haha! That’s my motto!”

He considered me a moment longer. “Pretty dumb motto, you ask me,” he said, draining his beer can. And, much to my relief, lowering his weapon.

***

“Hi, Sweetie!” Karen sang out when I knocked on the door of her cabin. She stretched up on tiptoes to plant a kiss on my unresponsive lips.

“Hello, Mrs. Lukovich,” I growled. “I just stopped by to say I’m going back to New York now. G’bye!”

“What? Why?” she asked, taken aback.

“One, you’re married. Two, you have a neighbor with a fondness for alcohol and conversations at gunpoint. Three, I think I need a change of underwear.”

“Oh…” she said, stepping back and frowning up at me. “You met Alan. He doesn’t know we’re separated yet.”

“Separated?” I asked, suddenly perking up again.

“Yes, Paul and I are separated,” she said. “I was going to tell you the whole sad story tonight. Now, come on in.”

I consulted the Operations Center, which urged caution.“Mmm, no thank you,” I replied. “This place doesn’t agree with me.”

The Operations Center also offered a solution. “But I saw a Hilton off the interstate an hour back. If you can pack a bag in five minutes or less, I’ll help you celebrate your separation with dinner and Champagne. And I’ll teach you a bunch of exciting and innovative ways to profane your marriage vows.”

Which we proceeded to do. And I never heard a word of admonition from Conscience about that evening’s pathetic lie.

And I got 500 Hilton HHonors points, too.

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