Comfortable Lies

Sometimes you need to cut people off and let them live with whatever lies they’re most comfortable with. Dan learned that one Tuesday morning while trying to fix a leaky hose, and his neighbor, Carl, leaned over the fence with a cigarette and too much advice.

“Thing is,” Carl said, blowing smoke toward the tomatoes, “some people just don’t understand truth. They get allergic to it.”

Dan didn’t look up from the hose clamp. “You talking about me or your ex-wife?”

“Both, probably.”

Dan chuckled. Carl’s ex-wife had become the neighborhood’s favorite cautionary tale.

She claimed she’d been abducted by aliens once, though the only evidence anyone ever saw was a circular burn mark on her back deck from when she’d fallen asleep with a cigarette. Still, she’d tell that story to anyone who’d listen, and Carl, who wasn’t always a picture of mental balance himself, used to try correcting her.

He’d argue, show photos, even call in her sister for backup. But the more he fought her story, the more convinced she became.

“She told me last week,” Carl said, “that the aliens took her up again, only this time they were polite about it. Offered her tea.”

Dan turned off the water and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Maybe she’s happier believing that than remembering she just fell asleep again.”

Carl leaned his elbows on the fence. “Yeah. But isn’t that kind of sad?”

Dan thought about that. He’d spent years trying to “fix” people’s versions of things, too.

Family, friends, coworkers, but it didn’t matter. If someone twisted the facts, he’d come marching in with his big Truth Flag like it was his civic duty to set the record straight, but lately, he’d begun to notice that all it ever got him was an argument, resentment, and a headache.

He’d learned this the hard way with his cousin Rick, who still told everyone that Dan once ran over his fishing pole with a truck “on purpose.” What really happened was that Rick had left it lying in the driveway behind the tire, and Dan, who was more focused on catching the sunrise at the lake, never saw it.

The truth got explained, diagrammed, and even reenacted, but Rick preferred the version where Dan was the villain. It gave him something to be righteously indignant about, and some folks love that feeling more than oxygen.

So, one day, Dan stopped defending himself. Rick told his story at a barbecue, and Dan just nodded and said, “Yep, that was a bad day.”

You could’ve heard the silence drop like a wrench on concrete. Rick looked confused, then triumphant, and after that, he moved on to other topics, like how the government was secretly training raccoons to spy on citizens.

That was when Dan realized that some lies are just emotional bubble wrap. They protect people from the harshness of the truth.

He looked over at Carl, who was squinting into the sun, probably thinking about his ex-wife and her polite aliens.

“You know,” Dan said, “maybe it’s not sad. Maybe she just found a version of life that fits her better.”

Carl flicked his cigarette butt into the dirt. “Guess so. Still wish she’d stop telling folks I was one of the aliens, though.”

Dan laughed. “Well, at least she thinks you’re out of this world.”

Carl rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” Dan said, coiling up the hose. “But at least I’m a human impossible.”

As Carl wandered back to his porch, Dan looked up at the sky, which was clear and blue—a typical day. He thought that perhaps the key to living peacefully was allowing people to believe whatever they needed to, while quietly addressing his own issues and maintaining his own truth.

While the truth may set you free, a good lie can help everyone get through the day.