letting some things go

I work at an art school that employs several nice guys on security detail; they certainly don't deserve to work with a lying smartass like me. The security guys walk around in grey uniforms, occasionally chatting, carrying walkie-talkies and making sure things are "OK in here." I was standing in our kitchen area the other day, washing my hands, when Danny approached and opened the lid to our First Aid box.

"Everything OK in there?" I said, stealing his line. He was OK with it, though.

"Yep," said Danny, snapping the lid shut. "Just making sure we got all our supplies."

"You know what we could really use? One of those heart defibrillators. You know...'clear!'."

"Oh, I'd be afraid to use one o' those..."

"No way, man, it's easy. You just take a one-hour workshop, use it anytime."

"You used one o' those before?"

"Sure. They're great. You can use 'em on your pets, too, if you just set the dial on low."

"Hmmm. Dogs, cats?"

"Yeah. Not hamsters, though. You gotta let some heart problems run their course."

Danny never called me on my crap there. I'd like to honor his rather stupendous tolerance. And quote poor overused Holden one last time:

I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera.