I Wish I Was the Liar I Once Was

I went for a walk in the old neighborhood today.  I was telling a story about a lie I told 340 times.   Oddly, I was happy that the lie worked.  So it was worth it.  One person believed the lie, and most importantly, I knew it.  If I didn't know it, telling the lie 340 times would have been a waste.  But wait, I didn't tell a lie with words.   Nor by not saying something.  Not really much of a lie, nor a liar.

The old house is looking great.  The stone house across the alley is looking a little spooky.  But back then it was reversed.  The stone house was sharp.  Our house was shambles.

So, every day when I got off the bus, which stopped across the street from the stone house, I would pretend to walk toward the stone house.  If there was anybody I knew on the #29 Williams Avenue bus I didn't want them to know my true residence.  Sometimes the bus would leave quickly, sometimes it would linger.  When it lingered I had to be clever about stalling.  Maybe tie my shoe, pretend to drop something, whatever.   I had to do this 340 times for every day I went to school at Central Catholic.   After I transferred to Lincoln there was no chance that anybody from school was on the #29 Williams Avenue bus.  

One day, and only once, one of my classmates made the comment I waited so long to hear:  "Ya, I know where you live Sinclair, that ugly old stone house.  hahahaha loser!!!"   Or something like that.  Well the joke's on him.  And if he knew the truth now, the joke's still on him.  The shabby house is looking good.



Also stopped at the old Little Chapel of the Chimes.  Also looking good.