Catfishing

There are five ways to convince people. Using one by itself can be powerful. Use a couple together and you can make them do some interesting things. Use all of them and you can make them do anything. I learned about the five ways from my dad. He used to be a salesman at Harper auto before a cerebral embolism left him paralyzed on the left side of his body. These days he sits on the couch collecting disability and watching Seinfeld reruns till 3 in the morning. His favorite episode is the one where George does the opposite of everything. I’ll watch it with him when it comes on because it’s one of the rare occasions where I might be able to see him laugh. I’ve heard him cry sometimes in the bathroom, late at night, when he thinks everyone is asleep. He cries because he’s ugly now. At least, that’s what my mom says (but she always puts it as “thinks he’s ugly now” as though it weren’t a fact that she doesn’t look at him the same way as she used to).

I’ve always been ugly. I don’t mean that in a self-pitying, you-should-feel-sorry for me kind of way. It’s a clinical diagnosis. Officially, they call it Craniofacial Fibrous Dysplasia. CFD. I call it Mr. Potato Head Syndrome. According to the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, it’s “a bone disease of the face and skull that replaces normal bone with fibrous-type tissue”, basically my skull is pudding. It’s caused by a rare genetic mutation in the GNAS gene. A somatic mutation, not a germline one, which I recently learned from my bio teacher means it’s not something I inherited, just an accident of random chance. There’s no cure, in case you’re wondering. I’ll be like this my whole life, until the day I die.

My dad was a real looker. He was a star quarterback in high school, which is a big deal in our town, and there are pictures of him huddling with the team or sitting on the bench, golden hair down to his shoulders, intense eyes, a jawline that could cut brick. He reminds me of that Greek statue of the boxer, the one that’s looking off to the side like he’s just been called to the next fight (the “next rodeo” as my dad would say), except my dad doesn’t look as sad or tired in the photos. He was good enough to get a football scholarship to Notre Dame, which, as you can imagine, was like walking on water in our little town. The only reason he didn’t go was because my mom, his then girlfriend, was pregnant with me. My dad thinks of himself as the good guy, a good Christian (not good enough to avoid fornication, but nobody’s perfect), and, to his credit, he’s never once been bitter about any of it, not even when I was diagnosed and the doctor told him I couldn’t play his beloved football like the other peewees. No contact sports whatsoever. All he had said on the car ride home was “Hallelujah”. Which I’ve since learned means “God be praised.” I know it’s silly to feel guilty about this, and whatever stupid apology I could make has remained forever unspoken between us, but sometimes I feel like falling at his feet.

I’m nothing like my dad. I don’t just mean ugly, I mean I’m a bad person. I’m bitter, resentful, antisocial, just plain malicious. I’ll give you an example. When my dad came back from the hospital last year, with the left half of his face drooping like a stack of flapjacks, there was a part of me, a small, secret part, that was glad, that was thinking “now he’ll know what it feels like”. He’s always had eyes on him, now he’ll feel the other side of that. Hallelujah.

I’m a sick man, I admit it.

Here’s another example: in the last year alone, I’ve wooed and jilted 53 girls, aged 16 to 34, of all colors and ethnicities. Not bad for a high school junior. I have 17 different profiles across four different dating apps that I’ve meticulously cultivated for optimal engagement. I never fish locally, of course, but one of the benefits of being the son of the best car salesman in the county is getting a first generation Pontiac Firebird for your 15th birthday.

I have a few spots around Philly that I send the girls out to but my favorite is a McDonalds up near Gem City. It’s a long way out, but the place has these huge glass windows that let you see straight inside. I always tell the girls to sit by the windows. Then I sit in the parking lot and watch them (I have 20/40 vision like my dad). I watch them sip their soda, check their phones, text me increasingly annoyed or desperate messages, call me and leave angry voicemails, and finally succumb to the realization that they’ve been stood up. Sometimes they even start crying. It’s around then that I drive away.

It’s funny how hopeful people are, especially girls, especially when the guy is good-looking. That’s the first way to convince people: make them like you, or rather, be someone people like. What do people like? Beauty, for one. Physical attraction should not be underestimated. If you’re handsome you get more job offers, make more money, are more likely to get help from others, are thought to be more intelligent, more kind, more honest than the uglies. I read somewhere that attractive criminals are twice as likely to avoid jail time as the unattractive ones. Kids that are cute are less likely to get punished. They even have a name for it, it’s called the “halo effect”, and like the hallowed angels, it’s invisible. People will deny it. They’ll say looks don’t matter. Nevertheless, I’ve gotten pretty good at Photoshop.

But that’s only one part of the equation. People like people who are like them. They like compliments. They like to be reminded of good times. This is basic 101 stuff, but you’d be surprised at how effective it can be. I’ve had girls fall for me because I told them I use the same brand of toothpaste they use (which I spotted in one of their bathroom selfies), or because I said I liked how open and honest they were. All my profile photos are set in places where it’s impossible to be unhappy: Hersheypark, Presque Isle, a concert at the Linc, a Phillies game at The Bank with a hoagie in my hand. Places packed with other people, with heads and eyeballs and judgements. Places I avoid in real life.

But anyway, hope. It doesn’t spring so eternal as in a high school sophomore who thinks she’s made a connection with a cute boy from the Coal Region. A guy from Luzerne with big dreams, big biceps, who’s rugged but also sensitive, who finds Taylor Swift overrated and watches hallmark Christmas films as a guilty pleasure and doesn’t eat pork or chicken that comes from a factory farm. And that’s the second way to convince people: figure out what they’ve pledged their allegiance to and make sure they know you’re a card-carrying member.

This girl, we’ll call her Minny, has been to the McDonalds four times. She lives in Pittsburgh. It’s a two hour drive to Erie but she doesn’t have a car so she boards a Greyhound bus at 6 in the morning and gets there around 1 in the afternoon. She’s done this four times. Each time I’ve watched her nibble on fries for two hours, her cheek resting on a palm that’s covered by a sweater sleeve that’s just a little too long, and watching the door and occasionally glancing out the window behind the huge circles of her glasses. She’ll leave me messages but they’re never mean, only a little worried that maybe something had gone wrong. A flat tire. God forbid, an accident. Each time I’ll make some excuse, and she’ll pack up her things and trek back to the bus station and never once shed a tear. It’s a two and a half mile walk, but she’s in pretty good shape–not exactly athletic, but skinny, scrappy, like those wire mannequins they use to display clothes. I’ll drive behind her at a distance, make sure she gets to the bus station safe and sound. Can’t have my Minny get hurt.

Today is the fifth time. And as I’m sitting in the car, the heat on full blast, trying to cope with the nausea from the Aredia infusion I had that morning, trying not to think about the fact that the pain is getting worse around my eye, I'm hoping, praying really, that she won’t show up. But then I see her trudge through the snow in a pair of old tennies, hugging her arms. She passes through the ringing door, takes her usual spot by the window. Her skin has gone pale and the colors are so slow to return she looks like a statue, something delicate and ceramic.

What can make someone face rejection five times in a row? What can make them meet at a McDonalds 130 miles away when they don’t even eat meat? I’ll tell you. This is the third way to convince someone. Confess your sins and secrets. Reveal your dreams and fears, your worst memories, the one whose death will break you. I’ll show you mine, because I know then you’ll show me yours. The old give and take.

Minny’s worst memory is catching her mom cheating on her dad. She came home early from school one day (because some bozo had called in a bomb threat to get out of a math test in second period) and then found a pair of unfamiliar loafers on the way to a locked bedroom door. She spent the rest of the day at the movie theater watching Michael Bay movies she can’t even remember now. She only remembers that it was loud and hid the sound of her crying.

If she died tomorrow the thing she would most regret is not having told her sister is how much she admires and looks up to her. They fight all the time. She’s jealous of the favoritism she’s enjoyed from their parents, teachers, everyone, and resents all the hand-me-downs and the unending unflattering comparisons, but beneath all that is a devout worship, a desire to be good and true and beautiful in her eyes.

When you tell someone stuff like this, it’s not that easy to rip the Bandaid off. It’s not that easy to say no to another six hour bus ride when the guy tells you it’s the only time he can meet this month (the fourth way, the crunch) and he knows every dark corner of your house and passes no judgement on its skeletons.

And besides, none of this happens all at once. You share something too personal too soon and you’ll lose them. And that is the last and most powerful way of all, the foot-in-the-door, the taking of the mountain by small stones, the boiling of the frog. We can all get locked in our little hamster wheels once they start going. Minny came the fifth time because, among other reasons, she had come the last four times and, if nothing else, we’re all suckers for consistency.

That’s how I imagine it went down with my mom and the guy she’s seeing behind my dad’s back. The embolism was sudden, but the feelings and the transformation must have been gradual. I only know about it because, funnily enough, she matched with one of my profiles on Match.com. I haven’t told my dad about it yet, but I’ve told Minny.

And that’s my hamster wheel. This unkillable delusion that I can come clean to her, just sit down at the table, introduce myself, and explain how sad and cynical and cruel the world really is. And I’m sorry. And I know I’m a bastard. And I promise I’ll stop doing this stuff starting now. I’ll go with you to the police if you want to turn me in, or just say the word, and I’ll go lay down in traffic.

In the passenger seat is a Montblanc Starwalker BlackCosmos fountain pen in a smooth black case with a red bow. Minny once told me that the one thing she would run into a burning house to save (assuming everybody else was out) was a fountain pen that her sister had bought her. A consolation prize for coming in third in a national essay writing contest. The Montblanc cost me four-hundred dollars. I’ve had it since the second McDonald’s trip. Today is the day I give it to her. I can feel the courage well up inside me as my boots crunch on the wet snow.

“Minny.”

She looks up at me, at first all excited, and then the grip on her phone tightens slightly and she glances at the nearest exit. I can have that effect on people.

“Can I sit down?”

“Um… I’m waiting for someone.”

“I know.” I sit down across from her. “Chris isn’t coming.”

“Who are you?”

The self-preservation instinct and my own finely honed powers of deception come up with a thousand lies. I’m his brother. I’m the guy he bullies at school. I’m the guy who stole his phone. There was an accident. There was a murder. There’s been a change of plans.

“You’ve been getting catfished Minny. Do you know what that means?”

“What?”

“Catfishing is when someone convinces–”

“Yeah, I know what catfishing is. What are you talking about?”

I reach into my pocket and put the smooth black box with the bow on the table. “This is for you. Don’t open it yet. You can open it after I leave.”

“I’m calling the police.”

“That’s your prerogative.” I look out the window. It’s dark but little flakes of snow are beginning to fall. Some of them kiss the glass and are instantly obliterated by the impact.

“Where’s Chris?” she asks.

“There is no Chris. There is only Zuul. Sorry. I am Chris. You’ve been talking to me this whole time.”

She swallows and shakes her head in tiny motions. “No, where’s Chris.”

“Minny, I’m the one that stood you up the last four times. You’ve been talking to me. I know all about your sister, your writing… your mom. Aren’t you glad I talked you out of sending those pics?”

She shakes her head again. For a while I think she might cry. Her hand drifts up to her mouth as if to stifle a sob. But then she doesn’t. “Why?” she whispers.

“Why do I do this? Or why did I lead you along? Stand you up? Or why you? What do you want me to say? Take a good look at my face. What do you think my actual chances were?”

Bless her heart, she’s still capable of feeling pity for someone. “Well not everyone–”

“Not everyone cares about looks. Yeah. Hey, I know you have every right after what I did, but can we dispense with bullshit? Pretty please? Quasimodo never gets the girl.”

She gently puts the phone down on the table. “How did that happen?”

“A somatic mutation in the GNAS gene.”

“What?”

“Nevermind. A genetic disorder. But not the kind you get from your parents. I’ve been like this since I was born.”

“So the coal mine, being quarterback, being lonely even though you’re popular, struggling with your weight because you don’t eat meat, all of that, everything–”

“Not everything. Some of it was true.”

“Like what.”

“Like my dad. Like my mom cheating on him. Like wanting to become a clinical psychiatrist or FBI profiler–Christ that sounds so stupid when I say it out loud. Like… like the things I wrote about you.”

And there it is. That slight flaring of the nostrils, the lift of the upper lip, a completely involuntary reaction signifying that one has whiffed garbage or rotten meat. The signal of disgust. This was a mistake.

“I do enjoy a good steak though.”

“Why me?” she asks.

“You’re just one among many. But I guess you’re special in that you don’t know when to quit. Most girls get the hint the first time around. It took you five times, and hell, can you honestly say you wouldn’t have come again if I didn’t come clean today?”

“Fuck you.”

“Sure.”

Then she looks at the box. “What’s in it?”

“Just something for your trouble.”

“Oh what, now you feel bad?”

“A little bit. I’m not a good person Minny, but I’m not God either. There’s a limit to how much punishment I can dole out.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“Understandable. But there’s a card inside with my name and address. My real name and address–”

“Why would I want–”

“You’ll need it if you call the police.”

She doesn’t have anything to say to that.

We sit there for what seems like a month. I’m trying not to stare at her so instead I look at the window where her reflection is cast, but mine too, so finally I just look at my hands. It’s too much. Anyway, the ball is in her proverbial court. I get up to leave.

“Why are you doing all this? You could have just stood me up again.”

“I don’t know.” I want to finish with some kind of snappy line but all I can come up with is, “I guess I feel I haven’t suffered enough. Goodbye Minny.”

Then I make the slow walk to my car and tumble inside and watch her open the box through the window and see the pen and read the card, which says other things beyond just my address and name, and I watch her put the pen and the card in the box and the box in her purse and sit there for a while and sip her drink and a little later I drive away and maybe two weeks later I get a message from her wanting to continue our correspondence, not with Chris but with me, as long as I promise not to catfish anymore, and I do promise, and we meet up for New Years at this same McDonalds, at this strange and holy ground, and somehow, by some miracle, she’s able to get past my looks and see the real me and even convince me to get the surgery to relieve the constant painful pressure I feel now every single day, even though it might leave me worse off, and the surgery goes well, and she’s right there by my side, and things are finally looking up for me, my time has finally come.

Yeah, right.

There are five ways to convince people. And if you use all five you can convince anyone to do anything. But the moral of the tale is you can never convince yourself. You think my dad had to persuade himself to stay, give up football, raise a broken kid? We’re either born the good guy or we’re not. And like my disease, it’s not something you inherit, just an accident of random chance.

The truth is I never got out of the car. There was no wellspring of courage. The pen is still in the box and sitting now in the back of my sock drawer. And Minny is still waiting for a reply that will never come. I’ve cut her off. I don’t go to that McDonalds anymore either, she’s ruined that for me. But that’s OK. There are lots of other McDonalds. And lots of Minnies too. So, I guess the only thing left to say is… Hallelujah. God be praised.

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Pub: 03 May 2025 15:17 UTC

Edit: 04 May 2025 15:55 UTC

Views: 218