TRUE LIES, TRUE ROMANCE

It’s a known fact that I’ve shared with many people: I did not mature until the age of twenty-nine. I had always said that I’d marry by the age of thirty, and true to my word, I got hitched one year earlier than my goal. During that stressful year, I hired in with the Michigan Department of Corrections, bought a 1970’s style ranch house, bought a brand new 1992 Ford Tempo, and helped plan my wedding. My parents and my in-laws agreed to pay two-thirds of the wedding cost, while my future wife and I paid the other third. Also during that time, my future wife bought a 1992 Lumina. She took out a loan through her employer’s private bank. Not that it matters now, but that Lumina was the crappiest car I’d ever had the pleasure of wasting time at a dealership with.

The day that our offer had been accepted on the house was the day that I proposed—Hey, I never claimed to be the romantic type—in fact, my proposal went something like this: “I guess we should probably get married, now that we bought a house together.” I never got down on one knee, I didn’t purchase an engagement ring, I simply stated a fact while driving over to her parents home. I can’t even remember what my wife said at the time. I’m thinking she said, “Okay,” but I’m not sure. Maybe she said, “Yes” or “Good idea.” Do I have any regrets as to how it went down? No. I’m a practical man, a realist. We sprung the news on her parents in pretty much the same way, “We just bought a house and we’re planning on getting married.” I never asked for permission to marry their daughter. My guess: at that age it’s perfectly acceptable to come right out and state your intentions.

Within the first month of working at my new job (prison in Detroit), I was told to close down my classroom and report to personnel immediately. I had asked my boss, “What’s going on?” She told me the Internal Revenue Service wanted to have a word with me. For some reason, I thought my future wife’s bold face lie about not having a car loan had something to do with this. Prior to our purchasing the house, she had told the loan officer, “My car’s paid for.” The loan officer looked at both of us in disbelief—two new automobiles and no car payments.

As I traveled between desks in the elongated personnel department toward the personnel director’s office, a Hispanic man in a fancy suit greeted me. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. “Mr. Garcia,” he said. “FBI.” The secretaries and office help were looking at me as if I had done something tragically wrong.

Puzzled, I asked for clarification, “I thought you were with the IRS.” The personnel director intervened. He said it was a joke. He knew beforehand that I was purchasing a home, so he thought he’d throttle me some. “Go ahead and take my office,” he told the FBI agent.

As soon as I plunked my ass in a chair, the agent started. “So you’re purchasing a house and getting married?” I was unimpressed, he could’ve received that information from the personnel director. “Your dad’s a tool maker by trade?” I might’ve mentioned this to someone at work. Then he came right out and asked, “Do you know a Lisa Wilson?”

I couldn’t believe it. Had my past caught up with me? She and I used to hangout together. I wanted to be exclusive with her, but she dumped me. The standard line: “I just want to be friends.” Story of my life. She had applied for a Federal Job and had put me down as a reference. I answered his questions as truthfully as possible. “Have you ever known her to use drugs, smoke marijuana?”

“No,” I said. I guess we all tell lies when needed. She knew that I was getting married, that she wasn’t invited to the wedding. After my first year of marriage, she called my parents and asked how I was doing. They said, “Fine. Just fine.” I’ve never heard from or about her since—our lives traveling their own separate ways—fourteen years later, my wife and I perfectly content.