The Fountain of Truth Read online

The Fountain of Truth

  by Jeremy Bursey

  Copyright 2015 by Jeremy Bursey

  All rights reserved.

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to your favorite ebook retailer to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  The Fountain of Truth

  Christmas Log

  St. Nick’s Gym

  Author’s Note

  Ebook Version

  About the Author

  Other Books

  Contact and Questions

  Introduction

  Every year on Facebook, I like to republish a fable I had written on Christmas Eve 2005 about families eating together at a popular restaurant for the holidays while revealing shocking truths about themselves to the surprise of their companions and children. I’d written it during a season when I, myself, was waiting tables and serving drinks to families who wanted to celebrate the holidays in public, and wondered how much truth they were hiding from each other. “The Fountain of Truth” is my interpretation of what the scene might look like if no one were to keep anything hidden from each other.

  Now that we’re coming on the tenth anniversary of that story’s creation, I thought it would be fun to take it beyond Facebook’s range and make it more accessible for not just those who live on my Facebook friend’s list, but for everyone interested in the idea. So I’ve decided to port it to the e-book format. If you’re reading this, and if you’re reading this on Christmas Eve, I want to say thanks for spending your evening with the fountain of truth (the fountain) and The Fountain of Truth (the story collection), and remember to always stay truthful because liars suck.

  Oh, and the other stories, “Christmas Log” and “St. Nick’s Gym,” are brand new. I wrote them to give this e-book and the idea of the Christmas fable some weight. But I’m also considering making this into a yearly series, depending on how much the readers want it. Let me know if you want more.

  With that, enjoy all the truth ahead.

  The Fountain of Truth

  The Kingdom Affair restaurant in the upper section of town was world-renowned for its ritzy atmosphere, its genteel clientele, and its popularity among holidays. Established from the skeleton of an old ballroom at the base of a glamorous hotel, the restaurant developed a style of high-class living that rivaled the aristocracy, the wealth, and the social gatherings of the posh sort. It was the perfect locale to usher in the Rolls Royce of façades when the name of saving face was in order.

  For this wealthy establishment, Christmas Eve was regarded as the busiest night of the year. On this eve of holidays, families and cohorts of the upper class persuasion dined to their hearts’ content, laughing and chatting over things that bore little significance to their lives. Dominating conversational topics ranged from pools, to spas, to Mercedes brand automobiles—all delivered through smiles that masked what people truly thought of the world. It was colorful bliss of the richest kind.

  But on this particular Christmas Eve, something remarkable happened. All across the restaurant, from one wall to the other, from the big room to the private one, the façade somehow fell. Families and friends abandoned their discussions of plastic surgery and million-dollar homes to speak of life in its truest colors. Those who were sobered were stunned. “How dare they speak their mind?” they thought, as sincerity erupted from out of nowhere and threatened to unsettle their special little utopian thoughts.

  The first sign of this Christmas miracle began with a table of eight—four men, four women—all wearing thousand-dollar outfits and million-dollar smiles. They had just taken their seats, the drinks had already arrived, and the hors d’oeuvres were on the way when the first break in conversation occurred.

  “And the Jaguar drives like a dream,” laughed the first man, a frail gray-haired chap of about seventy. “I haven’t been so happy since I got my latest Botox injection.”

  He took a sip of his soft drink, which he had ordered to keep from mixing his medication with alcohol.

  “But then, what’s a Botox injection,” he continued, “but to mask my decrepit state and my inability to compete with the young men of today?”

  The rest of the table gasped with astonishment. Where did this insult to the miracle of chemicals and plastic come from? The old man next to him tsked his tongue at him.

  “What kind of question is that?” he said. “Botox gave me new life.”

  He took a sip of his own soft drink.

  “A new life,” he continued, “to show me how discouraged I was with my old life…a life spent with a woman I never loved, who grew old on me ten years into marriage and was no longer the trophy I was proud of.”

  The woman next to him gasped with angry surprise.

  “Trophy wife?” she said. “Is that what I’ve been to you for forty years? A trophy wife? I loved you with all my heart and this is how you repay me?”

  She took a sip of her own soft drink to clear her rapidly drying throat.

  “I mean, I lied to you night and day so you wouldn’t divorce me and kick me out of your will. Do you realize how much I endured to pretend my love was real so I could have all your money when you die? I put up with your bad breath and your smelly feet for forty years, because I wanted to be rich, and now you have the nerve to call me a trophy wife? How dare you?”

  And that wasn’t the only place this miracle unfolded. On the other side of the restaurant, in a broader space, a family of three shared a table, awaiting the arrival of their prime steak dinners. The father, a young strapping man in his mid-thirties, the mother, a young beautiful woman made of diamonds and pearls, and the ten-year-old boy made of oatmeal and cookie dough, all sat around with soft drinks in hand, discussing the wonderful day they were about to have.

  “You’re going to love all your toys,” said the father to the son, with such glorious pride that his smile flashed halfway across the room. “I don’t want to tell you everything I bought, but I promise it will be grander than last year’s big one hundred.”

  The father took a sip of his soft drink.

  “Because,” he continued, “I don’t want to show you just how inadequate of a father I am, so I have to do my part to buy your love, which I know I can’t do, because I’m shaping you into a young spoiled brat, but I don’t want to take the time away from my business to be with you, so I figure that buying all these toys will hide my guilt, and that your mother will think I’m a good father and in turn respect me, which I know deep down she doesn’t, because I hear her muttering unsavory things at night in her sleep, but that’s okay, because I know I can buy her love, too, as long as I keep the fine jewelry coming.”

  And again, the table gasped, but this time the young impressionable heart and the soft, yet jewelry-covered woman both sobbed at the revelation that things weren’t what they seemed and that façades had taken control.

  Eventually, the young mother, after taking several sips of her own soft drink, said, “Maybe we need help.”

  Restaurant staff members—always keen observers of the way high society operated within those walls—were astonished at all the truth unfolding before them. Table after table swept up in a rage, while others floated off in a stream of tears. Meals were sent back as steak
s and pork chops went uneaten from lost appetites or had just gotten cold from being unattended to for so long. Drinks continued to arrive, because throats kept running dry from all of the shouting, but the truths didn‘t stop and the hearts kept exploding. When the head chef finally asked if anything environmental had changed to cause such an outburst of reality, one server by the name of Valiant spoke up with bright eyes and a steady demeanor.

  “I thought the greatest gift I could give these people,” he said, “was the gift of truth. So I injected the soft drink syrup with a vial of serum I bought from the mall, and now every guest has consumed it unknowingly. Even though I’ve ruined Christmas for most of them, I delivered them from their phony existence, and now they can live truthfully again.”

  As the head chef looked at him with astonishment, Valiant took another sip of his favorite soft drink, which he had forgotten that he had tampered with just ten minutes earlier.

  Christmas Log

  Late last November, a local radio show hosted a contest where people could win a million dollars if they participated in a simple game for Christmas. The station didn’t offer any rules or guidelines, nor did it post any disclaimers or describe any detail about the game. It just simply announced on the morning of Black Friday that anyone who called before 10 a.m. would be eligible to enter the contest, and that details would be given the day it began. In fact, the only stipulations it had added before soliciting for callers were that the station had the right to pick whoever it wanted to participate without explanation, that anyone who called for eligibility was committed to enter upon acceptance on the contest start date, that selected participants had to be available to play the game on Christmas morning, that the contest would be held in a facility designated by the station, and that whoever won the contest would be given a million dollars, tax-free, on the spot. By 10:01 that morning, the radio station had fielded more than ten thousand callers.

  The station narrowed the field by factors known only to its psychology team, and ended up selecting four single men: Peter, the reclusive art student, Douglas, the depressed businessman, Harvey, the angry police officer, and Gordon, the ambitious sales manager. When the station psychologist called each of them to confirm its selection, he verified each detail they had given him during the screening process. The following is what the psychologist wrote down in his profile sheet:

  Peter: Enjoys being along most days. Studying art at the university, but is thinking about dropping out to focus entirely on his paintings. Never sold any of his art. Known for being quiet and in no one’s way. Tends to skip parties. Isn’t usually invited to parties.

  Douglas: Recently laid off from his job managing accounts for lawyers. Trying to get work at a new firm, but no one is hiring. Divorced, no children. Spends most days in front of the television. Doesn’t know what else to do with his life.

  Harvey: Adrenaline junkie who likes to pick a fight. Often reprimanded at his job for causing trouble just to feel alive. Dates often but can’t commit to anyone. Hates kids. Has been fired for insubordination at nearly every job he’s worked. Threatens his suspects with violence if they don’t confess to their crimes within ten minutes—he likes things done on his schedule, not theirs.

  Gordon: Generally optimistic person who gets along with almost anyone. He seeks opportunities wherever available and always knocks, even when the door is closed and locked. Often considered for promotions; passed up only when he hasn’t finished building up a required skill, which he’s always working on. Takes good care of himself. Unmarried, only because he doesn’t want to hurt a woman’s feelings by accident.

  On the day of the contest, the four men were sent a text message with the time and address at which to show up. They were instructed to arrive at a building about two blocks from the station by noon. Gordon and Harvey arrived early. Douglas came dragging his feet through the door just after twelve. Peter overslept that morning and didn’t check his phone until 11:30. He arrived just after 1:00. Harvey pushed him against the wall and held his elbow over his chest for making them all start so late.

  “Now, now,” said the host, when he watched Harvey react to Peter’s tardiness, “this is no time to fight. Everyone’s here now, so we can begin. Please take a seat.”

  The four men were standing in a room made of gray walls and a black floor, completely empty, save for the row of plastic chairs arranged together at the center. They glanced at each other and shrugged. Then they shuffled to the middle of the floor. Each man took a seat and waited for further instructions. The host left the room.

  “Hey, where you going, pal?” Harvey yelled at the host’s back, as the host went through the door. Harvey’s echo answered him instead.

  “Must be part of the game,” said Gordon. “How fun and mysterious.”

  Harvey glared at him. Clearly the host was wasting their time.

  The host was actually making them wait while he searched for the person who was in charge of the game. When he returned about twenty minutes later, he brought an older gentleman with him. Everyone but Gordon was fidgeting by the time he had reentered the room.

  “This is Doctor Reever,” the host said. “He is the person responsible for designing this game. He will give you instructions on how to play in just a moment. Now, if you’ll each follow me.”

  The four men got out of their chairs and followed the host down a dark corridor. At the end of the corridor was an adjacent hall. On either end of the adjacent hall was a door made of iron. Just beyond each door was a turn down yet another hallway. Both doors had a security guard stationed beside it.

  The host stopped them at the T-junction at the end of the main hall.

  “Behind me is a ballroom divided into four quadrants,” he said. “Each quadrant has a steel wall on all four sides and an iron door separating them from the outside hall. You will each choose a room to call your own. Then you will await further instructions.”

  The four men exchanged looks. They weren’t sure exactly what this game was about. They knew only that they were committed to the game, per the rules, and that the prize for winning was a million dollars. So, they were nervously excited and couldn’t wait to begin.

  Peter and Douglas each took the rooms connected to the front hallway; Harvey and Gordon took the ones in the back. Only Gordon made eye contact with his respective guard as he entered. Each guard closed and locked the iron doors behind them.

  “Each room is the same,” said Dr. Reever, through an intercom in the ceiling. “Please take a moment to examine your surroundings.”

  The men did as they were told.

  They were each enclosed in a private square room about forty by forty feet. The rooms had slightly convex floors, with concentric layers of Christmas trees circling a fallen log and a plastic chair in the middle. On two separate ends of each room, a wooden table stood beside the wall. A box of matches, a box of cigarettes, a pencil, and a hacksaw were sitting on the tables nearest the doors. Five boxes of crackers, three gallons of water, and a paper cup were sitting on the tables at the other end of each room. Some of the trees had lights strung around them, but none had ornaments. Three trees in each room had a present underneath, each wrapped in different colored wrapping paper. A drain sat in the middle of each floor under the plastic chairs. A cracked pipe ran the length of each ceiling directly over the chairs. The ceilings were about twelve feet high. Four halogen lamps hung from each ceiling equidistant from each other, about ten feet from each center of the rooms.

  “When you’re done looking at your surroundings, please take a seat,” Dr. Reever said.

  Each man sat in his seat for nearly five minutes before the psychologist spoke again.

  “Now, the game is simple. In the middle of your room next to your chair, you will see a log lying on the floor. Somewhere in that log is a metal key. That key will unlock your door. The first person to walk through his door will win a million dollars. The second to walk through his door will win twenty thousand dollars and a free trip to Euro
pe. The third to walk through his door will win a free dinner for two at the restaurant of his choice. The fourth will go home emptyhanded. You have what you need to get to that key. The first to get his door open will be a millionaire. It’s that simple. Good luck, gentlemen.

  “Begin.”

  As soon as the psychologist’s voice died out, a drop of water bubbled up and fell from the crack in the ceiling pipe. Another drop fell a few seconds later.

  It would drip indefinitely.

  This was the moment the game would become real to them.

  Peter

  Because he was used to spending his days alone, Peter did not see a problem here. In fact, he already saw himself at an advantage over the others because they were likely to go crazy from isolation if this project were to take them too long, a condition that he was already well practiced with. And that was also an advantage for him because he could see this as a project and not as a competition. Any project worth its salt required time to perfect, and this was something he could see taking time. The trick, of course, was to figure out what his vision was, both for the tree log, and for the goal of getting out. Because art took time, the idea of just ripping the log into pieces, grabbing the key, and racing out of here first was practically barbaric. He would not do the project justice. And, because as an artist he was conditioned to expect very little pay for his effort, he had already gotten the illusion out of his head that he would be the winner of a million dollars. He figured he could settle for the twenty thousand, or even the free dinner, which was a fair price for designing an art project made out of wood.

  Douglas

  As a former killer in the business world, Douglas knew the value of money and the power it held sway over anyone’s motivation to succeed at his goals. But his job was to convince others to buy stuff they didn’t need, to trust lawyers who might screw them later, and it was a job that he had lost due to a change in the market’s expectations of him. If he could lose his position so easily, then he wasn’t sure he even deserved the money anymore. He wanted it, sure. The same ingredient that had convinced him to give the business world a try was the same ingredient that had gotten him to call the radio station and join this silly contest in the first place. But life was passing him by so quickly. Other competitors, younger, faster, stronger, were coming up the line behind him and outshining him at every turn. He figured the same would happen here. No matter how hard he’d fight to get to that key, his three rivals would undoubtedly get to it first. They’d be faster, smarter, or even luckier than him. He’d be the big loser in this contest no matter how hard he tried, and he knew it. So, he kept to his chair and stared at the log, trying to decide just how much effort he should put into this, if any.

  Harvey

  Criminals feared no one in the police force as much as they feared Harvey, for he was a veteran at using his surroundings to his advantage. He’d take the bad guys down by throwing trashcan lids at their heads or rolling bowling balls at their feet. He’d draw his firearm on an old lady jaywalking if he thought it would scare her out of ever breaking the law again. He also had his fair share of suspensions over the years, thanks to his occasional need to shoot someone in the knee for a lack of cooperation. All in the name of justice, of course. Even though he pissed off everyone he’d come in contact with at some point or another, he did so because it got the job done. And getting the job done was the most important thing in life to him, no matter what ends he’d have to meet in order to accomplish it. It was important in life, important in business, and it was important here in this cell full of Christmas trees. And to get the job done meant getting to that key before anyone else could even catch a whiff of it. So, he would have to use his resources to the best of his ability. That much he knew for certain.

  Peter

  The number one job of an artist is to create a masterpiece, and no masterpiece can be completed without the right tools. Because he had explored the room prior to the psychologist’s announcement, Peter already had an idea about what he needed to get the job done. So, he went to the table at the far end to get a drink of water and a quick snack of crackers. He knew he had a long night ahead of him, so he decided to get his fill now so he could concentrate on the project without further distraction from things like hunger or thirst later.

  Once he was satisfied, he circled the room to the other table and grabbed the hacksaw. Even though he didn’t want to cut the log into tiny pieces, he did want to whittle some of it down, to shape it into something elegant. What he thought he could do was to carve an ornamental canoe out of it.

  He kicked the plastic chair out of the way and knelt next to the log. Then he began scraping the hacksaw across the log’s bark surface.

  Already he sensed a problem. During the initial scouting period, he had forgotten to check the properties of both the log and the hacksaw, so he failed to realize how much of an upward battle he would have to fight.

  The log was made from a fallen mahogany tree, not a traditional Christmas pine. So the bark was very tough. Not impossible to cut, of course, for someone had managed to chop it into a log, and, according to Dr. Reever, insert a key into the trunk somehow. But still, very difficult, and ultimately very strenuous and time-consuming to whittle down any part of the log, and even more tiresome to search for the key. He would probably have to make a few adjustments to his vision in order to keep from tiring out completely.

  The other problem was with the hacksaw. In short, no one had sharpened it prior to leaving it on the table. Even as he took the first swipe of the blade across the log’s surface, he barely nicked the wood. It was hardly better than using a butter knife to cut it. The job would take him much longer to complete than he had anticipated.

  He brought the three jugs of water to the center of the room to keep himself hydrated while he embarked on the creative process.

  Douglas

  As a businessman, Douglas was used to making profitable deals. It was how he was able to survive well into his thirties. But here in this lonely room, he had no one to haggle with, no one to offer him feedback in regard to his success, and no one to urge him to try harder if things weren’t looking too bright. All he had was his own drive, his own wit, and the limited tools that this company—the radio station in this case—had offered him, and the ensuing combination of all three elements did not add up to anything powerful. In short, his chances at success were minimal, just as they had been in the dying days of his career, and more personally, his marriage.

  He knew the problem he was facing. There was a key somewhere in the heart of this thick, possibly impenetrable mahogany log. He could maybe dig for it with his fingernails. But that would’ve hurt, causing his fingertips to burst into blood. He also thought about using the hacksaw to cut the log into pieces, but the blade was so dull that he would’ve been lucky to even shave it, and using it would’ve caused him so much fatigue, and he was already fatigued with life. Granted, he didn’t see any other option here. If he wanted to get to the center of the log, he’d have to get his hands dirty. That was just the way it had to be. In his line of work, he was used to letting others get their hands dirty on his behalf.

  He didn’t know which way to go from here, so he plucked a cigarette from the pack on the table near the door, struck a match, lit the filter, stubbed the match onto concrete floor, and returned to the chair as he waited for his nerves to calm.

  Then he had an idea.

  At first he was surprised by his originality, but then he thought about how business worked. Everything in life required supply and demand. When he managed accounts for lawyers, he had to supply the paperwork that his employers demanded. When the evidence they demanded couldn’t be found, he’d supply it by giving them a substitute truth. There was always a method for getting things done according to need, even if the method required a little bit of cheating.

  In this case, Douglas thought the best way to get to the center of the log was to dull the wood first. So, he pushed the chair out of the way, then
rolled the log under the pipe drip, and then sat back in the chair and waited for the water to erode the wood. He even helped it along by dumping two of his three gallons of water all over it.

  Now he had to just sit there and wait for the wood to rot. Then he could start hacking it to pieces.

  While he sat there, staring at the log, he thought about all the things he had lost in the name of doing what he thought was right for his career. He began to cry.

  Harvey

  As a man who couldn’t be bothered with wasting time, Harvey went right to work the moment Dr. Reever went off the air, looking for any resource he could find to pulverize that tree as quickly as possible. He put guys away in prison all the time, and he hated the feeling of being locked up himself. The sooner he got out of this hellhole, the better.

  He knew what the tables had to offer in the name of resources, but he didn’t know what was inside the three gifts that he had found under the Christmas trees in the concentric circles around him. So, he gathered each of the presents, brought them to the table with the hacksaw, and tore into them. He found a pile of coal in one of the boxes, a bell in another, and a package of beef jerky in the third. None of these were helpful.

  Then he took the hacksaw and began gnawing at the tree bark with its dull blade. He feverishly tore into it for five minutes straight before his arm had gone into a spasm and he found himself out of breath. On his moment of rest, he jogged to the water table, poured himself a drink, chugged it down in a single gulp, then went back to work on the log. He spent another five minutes trying to cut into the surface of its mahogany hide. When he fell back panting, he saw that he had dug into it by only half an inch. And that was just one groove. The log was about two feet thick in diameter, about five feet long, and the hole that had been cut out to hide the key had been filled in so well that he couldn’t detect where someone had tampered with it. It would take him days to find it at this rate.

  Frustrated with his new reality, he took the chair and began hammering it against the log, hoping to take out bigger chunks of wood. The tremors associated with impact rumbled all the way down through his wrists and elbows and up into his shoulders, and he nearly lost his balance, but he kept whacking at it, kept hoping to make that precious dent in its surface. The chair broke on the third hit. He started kicking it with his foot instead. He broke that, too.

  Then the most genius of ideas came to him. It was the idea that would make him the guaranteed winner of the contest. In fact, he was so certain of its success that he laughed at himself for not seeing it before when he wasn’t crying from the pain in his foot. This was clearly the way that the game’s designers had intended for him to win. They didn’t want to reward patience; they wanted to reward intelligence. He laughed at himself again for being such a fool until now.

  Harvey hobbled to the table by the door and grabbed the pile of coals. Then he brought the coals to the log and lined them up against its curved underside. Then he dragged several Christmas trees to the log and tipped them over in a crisscross pattern. Then he took the box of matches and set the whole thing ablaze.

  Then he waited for the log to burn into a pile of ash. His goal was to let the key come to him.

  Unfortunately, because the kindling extended to the innermost ring of trees, the fire had no trouble jumping to a new surface, and it spread to each concentric circle of Christmas trees within minutes. Harvey passed out from heat and smoke inhalation before he could discover whether his plan would even work.

  Gordon

  As soon as the lingering resonance of Dr. Reever’s voice faded out, Gordon considered the situation he was in, considered the money and freedom he wanted, and then sought the most obvious method for getting out. He knew what the game was he was playing. He figured his competitors were already hard at work trying to get to that key. And he knew that he should do everything he could in his power to also get to that key.

  The problem was that the psychologist had never outright told them to use the key. He only told them that it was there, and that their job was to be the first to escape the room.

  So, instead of wasting his time trying to dig for the key, he simply went to the door and asked the guard to let him out.

  “Seriously?” the guard asked.

  “The rules didn’t say I couldn’t ask,” Gordon said. “So, I’m exercising my right to think outside the box.”

  The guard was looking at him through the tiny barred window, incredulous, but intrigued at the same time. Gordon could see the hesitation in his eyes, so he helped him out.

  “We can do things for ourselves any time,” Gordon said. “But we do things better as a team, do we not?”

  The guard shrugged.

  “Makes sense.”

  “And we have not because we ask not, right?”

  “I’ve heard that somewhere, yeah.”

  “So, this isn’t prison. You’re not under any obligation to keep me locked up here. And if you are, no one here has made that clear to me. So, the way I see it, you have to let me out because I’m asking you to let me out.”

  “Makes sense, but—”

  “And you can’t legally hold me here because I didn’t sign any form that explains that you can, or should. The only contract I signed was the one that explained to me that I had to abide by the rules of the game, and that by winning the game, I would win a million dollars.

  “The rules state that I have to get out of here. The rules do not restrict my method for getting out. The rules do not state that I must hold a key in hand. The rules only state that I must walk through my door before anyone else walks through his door to win the prize. So, unless you’d like to be sued for breach of contract or holding me here against my will, please open this door.”

  The guard shrugged.

  “All right, fair enough.”

  And so, the guard opened the door for Gordon, and Gordon walked through with his chin held high, and he tipped his head in gratitude to the man who had given him freedom and, ultimately, the win.

  “For your help,” he said, “I’ll give you a small cut. How’s a hundred thousand-dollar Christmas bonus sound to you?”

  The guard smiled.

  “Sounds real good, sir. Real good.”

  “Good. You help me, I help you. I’ll put that in writing if you’d like.”