rinue | Honest like a Fox

It's hard to be witty without a superlative command of language. As a result, or as an outgrowth, I've spent an unnerving amount of time reading dictionaries. Some of them have been word lists, others specialized slang; quite a few have been in foreign languages, some fictional. I read derivations, I scout linkages, and I puzzle over hominyms. I'm uniquely qualified to distinguish a good dictionary from a bad one; my life's goal is to own a copy of the unabridged OED.

Something I've noticed over the years is the trouble lists have with defining basic philosophical concepts ilke "love" or "friendship." Editors love words like "dieldryn" or "callipygian," but give them something like "truth" and most dictionaries won't even try. They'll dash off a caption like "that which accurately portrays reality" and then leave the rest to debates by drunken college students - which is perfectly understandable.

I've long since surrendered any pretense of truth. It's not that I'm dishonest; I just doubt the accuracy of my (or anyone's) perceptions of the world. To claim to be truthful is pretentious. Long and short, I tailor my story to my audience and strive more for beauty than truth. What this makes me is a very good waitress.

My interest comes in what people will believe and what they won't. A case in point is the conversation I had with my manager yesterday.

Brent: So what's with you and acting, anyway?

Romie: Well, I'm from a family of gypsies. We're all actors, con men, and musicians, and I figure I'm already a con man and a musician.

Brent: (concerned near panicking, flashing the whites of his eyes) Shit!! You're a con artist and I hired you?!!!

Romie: (soothing) Just little stuff, like palmistry booths at carnivals.

[A neon sign lights over Brent's head and pulses "EASY MARK" in bright sparkling letters.]

Brent: (childlike) Ooooooooooh. . . Can you read my palm?

It's worth noting here that I can't read palms and I'm not ethnically gypsy. However, I told Brent about how he struggles to stay clear of his old drug habit, because he knows it would wreck his marriage. I told him he has four boys and no serious health problems. Actually, I should say he told me all that, but that's not how he saw it. The entire kitchen staff - which already believes I'm French/Irish royalty - is now in awe of me. It helps that I'm the mysterious tatooed red head. [Technically, I am Irish and French royalty, but who isn't?]

On the other hand, I have trouble convincing people of things that are verifiably true and in no part my own embellishment. For example, one of the bus boys has fallen madly in love with me and follows me around all the time making puppy-dog eyes and carrying my dirty dishes. In my attempts to shake him, I have been entirely honest with my excuses.

1. I'm getting married next Saturday.

2. My fiance is a blackbelt who can suffer psychotic breaks.

3. I am versed in several martial arts and have plotted the murders of two family members.

These things, apparently, are unbelievable. Nobody has any trouble with the idea that I'm an underground agent, but my being 22 years old is apparently ludicrous.