The Big Lie (on the Propagation of Unintended Consequences)

Part the First: A Lie is Born

I was not raised in a black and white world of absolutes. My mother, the Reverend Dorothea M. Phillips, did not subscribe to the Brady Bunch theory of half-hour resolutions. No, life was far more complex than is dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio (she called me "Horatio" a lot when she spoke of philosophy).

"Honesty is the best policy" was not taught in the Phillips household.

Rather, "Save your lies for when they're very important" was what my mom advised. I interpreted this to mean that lies were OK in repsponse to questions like "Do I look fat to you?" and "How're the Pirates gonna do this year, ya think?"

The Reverend Dorothea M. Phillips (or TRDMP for short) further explained that lying raised complications in one's life that were best left unexplored. She then spoke of tangled webs and began calling me "Walter" or "Scott".

Oh sure, I tried my hand at lies early on. I learned what she meant by "tangled webs" and how much practice decption really took. Soon enough, I learned that saving my lies for really important times might just be the thing for me.

So to quote Robert A. Heinlein quoting Samuel Clemmons, "I myself am middlin' honest".

And yet...

When push comes to shove...

My evil mind may just cojure up the evilest lie of all, just to serve my own selfish desires. This simple prevarication could spin a web of deceipt strong enough, insidious enough to bring down a Noble, August Institution as noble and august as the National Basketball Assosication.

Yes, friends. It's true. I'm a liar. A prevaricator. My veracity is to be vigorously impugned.

It all started out so innocently, I swear! Xanthippe and I were arguing the argument of all 21st Century couples: what channel to watch on the television apparatus. I wanted to watch the NBA semifinals between the Heat of Miami and the Pistons of Detroit. She preferred the two hundred fifty eighth consecutive episode of "Bill and Grace" reruns on channel 258.

As we wrestled for the remote control, I spied out of the corner of my eye one Richard Hamilton, NBA superstar. Mr. Hamilton, having busted some bone in his face, had to wear a plexiglas shield in order to withstand the rigors of professional basketball.

"I just don't know about those Robots in the NBA..", I opined aloud as the fair Xanthippe poked my rib area with her index finger. grabbing at the remote control.

"What?"

"Did he say 'Robots'"?

Yes. I had said "Robots", and The Lie was born.

The gullible mind recoils, I guess, at the though of robot players in professional basketball. Xanthippe watched the game in shocked silence for a while. My plan was working!

"See, there he is again," I said when it looked as though the fair Xanthippe was making a move for the remote control. No, she was only turning up the volume so that she could follow the game more closely.

"If only I could bottle this..." I thought to myself.

She sat silently during the rest of the game, only to explode in a series of earnest questions during commercial breaks:

"Why don't they just use all robots and no people at all?"

"What do the human players think about playing with robots?"

"Isn't there some kind of rule against this?"

"He even shakes hands with the other players. Why'd they program him to do that?"

"How come his arms and legs look human?"


I might have seen the Trouble to Come, I supppose, had I not been watching The Game.

But I was, so I didn't notice the purposeful shine in Xanthippe's beautiful gray-blue eyes. During the commercial intermissions, in the question and answer period of our evening, I answered all her questions the same way:

"Sssh. The game's starting."

By God, she bought it.

At one point, Buzz (our eldest son) burst into the room, demanding the car keys.

"Look!" Xanthippe told him, pointing at the TV screen. "There's a robot on the blue team! Robots in basketball!"

"You haven't heard about that?" he asked, affecting a look of surprise. Buzz is a very very very smart young man and his father loves him very much. "They've had those for a couple of years," he continued, reaching out for the car keys.

In my gratitude, I wanted to toss him the keys to the Rolls. Except we don't have a Rolls. So I handed him the keys to my little Chevy and made a mental note to update my will.

And then I turned my attention back to The Game.

As you know, the outcome of this contest was that the Detroit basketball squad beat the Heat in Miami to advance to the NBA Finals. They were to meet the Spurs of San Antonio. It occurred to me that I might just like to enjoy watching these games on the TeeVee. I wanted this so much, in fact, that I decided not to repent my false witness.

No, not just yet.

As I secretly rubbed my hands together in glee, I failed to notice that my lovely wife had gone strangely quiet. Pensive, even. I drifted off to sleep, dreaming of the ole Pick and Roll, the Give and Go, the Three-pointer from Way Way Way Downtown. Life was sweet. In my dreams, at least.

(to be continued...)