I had a friend who was a pathological liar. I do not use that term lightly; he really was. We met in college and then through an odd set of circumstances wound up working for the same television station in New York—in fact, our offices were right next door to each other.
As the widowed Caitlin Thomas said of her poet husband Dylan, "He'd lie about what he had for breakfast." My friend was the same way—it didn't matter what. Small example: he'd tell you all the incredible things that he read in a new book and when you read it for yourself, you discovered that he had made everything up. None of it was there.
From time to time, his serial dishonesty caught up with him and there was trouble. And once it even caught up with me—at his funeral. Speaking with his mother—and for the life of me, I don't remember why I said anything but there must have been a reason—I mentioned that he told me he was adopted and that they had been excellent parents. He often spoke of it. She looked at me in horror. It was completely untrue, of course, one last gotcha from the grave.While alive, he usually got away with all of this because he was funny, smart, entertaining, charming, tall, and good-looking. He had the charisma one sometimes experiences with the truly psychotic....