April 12, 2000
Believe it or not: Confessions of a liar
By Garret Leiva
Herald editor
Despite my salt-of-the-earth, Midwest upbringing, I am a good liar. Well, actually, that's not entirely true. The fact is I'm a great liar.
Little white lies, barefaced lies, lies in one's throat, along with a royal flush poker face, have freed me from some sticky jams - and not just who spilled the grape jelly on the carpet.
Truth be told, however, crying probably played a factor in getting off the proverbial hook. Real tears would cascade down my red-faced cheeks while my accomplices (or accusers) could only conjure up the crocodile variety or a desperate "liar, liar pants on fire, hanging from a telephone wire" retort. The painfully real dry-heave sobbing didn't hurt my cause either.
So perhaps for accuracy sake, pathetic half-truths were my true calling when it came to dodging the truth and consequences.
After all, when my mother would ask me if I did my math homework, the question half of the equations were written out. When she inquired if I had cleaned my room, the half of the floor not covered by the bed was both spic and span. If she questioned me about the sudden disappearance of the peas from my dinner plate, my quick response was that I'd wash them down with milk. To this day, I can't honestly tell you why she bothered checking my homework, vacuuming under my bed or insisting I finish my greenish hue glass of milk.
Given my long-standing successful aptitude for bending the truth, I decided last Thursday to take a lie detector test. The examination administered by Keith Polygraph Services of Traverse City would provide background information for a feature article on polygraph examiner Thomas Keith. It also gave me a chance to flex some atrophic malarkey muscles.
Taking my place in the examination chair, convoluted rubber tubes were strapped to my chest and abdomen area. Next came a blood pressure cuff wrapped around my left arm and two small metal plates attached to my right index and pinkie fingers. It was not unlike the sensation of my one and only trip to Principal Guiser's office, except there was no paddle with aerodynamically designed holes, only five playing cards.
"Take one of the cards, look at it, put it back in the deck, shuffle them, but don't tell me your card," instructed my polygraph examiner. He then informed me that he was going to ask a series of numbers, including my selected card, and I should answer 'no' to each of his questions. In other words, I should lie.
"I want you to try to beat this if you think you can," he said, pumping up the blood pressure cuff.
I started to smile, but remembering that it takes more muscles to frown, I put on a stoic game face thinking all that flexing would manipulate the physiological data. The real problem, however, was thinking. Even before the first question was posed, the only thoughts running through my mind were the Ten Commandments, ten lords a leaping and hanging ten.
Hoping to cloud my own gray matter with a mini Vulcan mind-meld, I concentrated on visions of my father's old bicentennial 7 IRON license plate. When that didn't work, I pondered the pros and cons of NFL instant replay and if there are pork rinds, why aren't there seeds? After that failed, I simply answered 'no.'
After eight questions and several minutes of silence, the examiner ripped my chart of the polygraph.
"Is there any question in your mind that I don't know you picked number ten," he replied, pointing to sweat gland activity levels which looked like seismograph readings during a Godzilla vs. Mothra slugfest in downtown Tokyo. There was no denying the truth: I had successfully failed my first polygraph test.
Despite evidence to the contrary, when it comes to cards, I can play a good hand of 'Liar's Poker.' Well, actually, that's not entirely true. The fact is I play a great hand - honest.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail at gleiva@gtherald.com.