The Truth Jar

by Shauna Checkley

part 1

Marilyn sat on her stool in the corner of the art gallery. It was the Security Guard’s station and a spot she had become grudgingly familiar with. She stared blankly at the see-through front of the gallery, watching the passersby as they traversed the library beyond.

Marilyn yawned. She squirmed on the stool. Her bottom had begun to feel numb from prolonged sitting. She rose and slowly sauntered about the gallery, stopping to re-examine art pieces that she had already scrutinized dozens of times before. She paused at the long, pink tube that she thought resembled a penis or a hot dog or something and not the commentary on consumerism that it happened to be. Stifling the urge to touch it, she slipped her nearly offending hand into the pants pocket of her navy-coloured Guard’s uniform. Don’t want to be caught doing that. Not. Ever.

Toni and Andrea nodded and smiled at her as they walked past Marilyn to their offices at the back of the gallery. They disappeared inside. They were her supervisors but were busy and preoccupied as ever. They saw little of one another.

Walking to the front of the gallery, Marilyn gazed through the glass front at the library beyond. A slow, steady pedestrian ambience had filled it. Rob, the Security Guard for the library itself waved at her as he walked past.

Marilyn waved back.

Marilyn had begun to people-watch. Roughly three different groups could be found there: library users, the regulars, and transients. Sometimes she played a mental game of A, B, C, whereby she would see a patron then assign a letter accordingly. It helped to pass the time. It kept her focused on her job. Sorta. But it had also begun to remind her of a similar game that she had played years before. Back when she and her friend Karen would sit on park benches or in the mall and play Boxers or Briefs, assigning likely underwear to male passersby.

Marilyn sighed. That was when life was fun, when I was young, not like now.

Still, she was grateful for her job. It was an easy assignment, after all. Stationed in the quiet gallery was light enough and certainly preferable to being one of the unemployed that filled the library and the greater city beyond. It gave some security, Marilyn joked, and not just to the public that she served. Pays the bills. Keeps me in Pizza Pops. What more could you ask, really?

Marilyn had fallen in love with the place when she first saw it. Pepperdine Gallery was situated in the heart of the large library that was a cultural hub in the Prairie city, an esteemed place of unorthodox values and cutting-edge art. It was funded in part by the government and by a local, wealthy Patroness of the Arts, Frances Pepperdine, who had long since passed away but had bequeathed her fortune to the Gallery, a stunning legacy that allowed for its founding in the first place.

Marilyn glanced at her watch: 2:00 pm. Another half-hour till coffee break. What to do? She really didn’t fancy returning to her stool in the corner. As usual, there was no one in the Gallery. So, she just stared out the glass front and sighed.

But then she saw it. The Truth Jar. Off to the left side of the gallery front, the new installation that had been set up only last week. A mid-sized piece, a detailed, golden-coloured pottery jar set on top of a plain black desk. It was aesthetically pleasing, eye-catching even. It reminded Marilyn of pictures of amphorae she had seen in textbooks while in school. There was something Grecian or Roman about its look. Above it was the title, The Truth Jar, mounted on a bracket on the wall.

Marilyn had forgotten about the new piece. Wonder what’s in it?

She sauntered over to the Truth Jar and peered in. There were several notes crumpled inside it. Beside it was a small notepad and pen and instructions to write one’s truth and drop it into the Jar.

Hmm...Kind of a cool idea. It’s more down to earth than a lot of the other stuff I usually see here. She had always found the gallery to be too highbrow and avant-garde for her taste. But this piece spoke to her immediately, with a sort of folksy sensibility that seemed both direct and accessible.

I wonder what’s written on those slips of paper? Marilyn reached in and plucked the messages out. She read them one by one.

I farted.
Who stole the soul?
I should have invested in Bitcoin before the bubble burst.
Sit down and shut up.

Finally, she came to the last one. It was written on mauve stationery with a floral border, not the notepad paper that the rest of them were written on.

My husband loves me more, much more, in fact, than I love him. But what to do about it? I have tried everything. Is it my fault? Probably..

Hah! True confessions of the post-modern masses, Marilyn giggled. Having perused all the notes, Marilyn dropped them back in the jar. All except for the one written on the mauve paper, finding it deliciously personal and confidential, more real and heart-rending than the rest, she stuffed it into her pants pocket, an action that surprised her even while she was doing it. Should I write one too? Why not? I have nothing else to do. Hmm... so what is my truth, then?

Marilyn wrote: I am so damned bored. She folded it neatly and dropped it into the jar. Smiling, she walked away. After coffee break, Marilyn returned to her stool in the corner. She felt happily revived from her time in the sunlight. It was also comforting to know that she was in the last leg of her workday. Soon I’ll be out the door. She felt her spirits soar as high as the clock overhead.

But then Marilyn saw her: Lexi Jones. The tall, thin Barbie-Doll-looking young woman from Upper Management. Lexi was the one with the long, sleek hair that wore even sleeker power-pantsuits. Marilyn watched as the woman dropped a ready-made note into the Truth Jar and hurried away.

Curious, Marilyn walked over there. She recognized Lexi’s note paper right away as it was on the same mauve paper with a floral border, the only note different from the rest. She fished it out and read it.

He makes me so mad I could scream. But I think I might just cheat on him instead. Or at least flirt. That new guy is cute. Is that passive-aggressive lol?

Marilyn was floored. She reread the note and then slipped it into her pocket alongside the other note. It struck her as a markedly personal admission. Hmm... wonder what that is all about?

Instantly, Marilyn was reminded of the stacks of magazines under her Aunt’s bed, the ones with the staged pictures and the lurid titles. The very magazines that piqued the interest of her prepubescent brain. Poring through them on inclement days, she filled her inner world with dark suggestion and emerging fantasy.

Once her shift had ended, Marilyn hurried home. She was glad to shed her uniform, for it felt like some unwanted second skin. After supper, she cuddled with her cat, Jigsaw, on the love seat and watched TV, her usual nightly pattern.

In bed, she remembered the Truth Jar. She recalled Lexi’s notes on the mauve paper. Like a ticker tape parade, they blew freely in her mind. Then she slept message-deep.

“Good morning, Marilyn,” Andrea said as she breezed past her, nearly grazing her shoulder in the process.

“’Morning,” Marilyn replied.

Toni nodded briskly. Then made a bee-line for her office.

The next day at work felt as dry and routine as some unwanted drill. But Marilyn coped with the boredom the best that she could. She played her ABC game. She people-watched. She guarded her station. She talked to anyone within earshot. Like she always did, she mentally divided her workday into segments, into smaller bits of time to make her shift more manageable and pleasant. It helped keep her appeased, distracted.

Remembering the Truth Jar, Marilyn went over and checked it. Nothing. But then she remembered it was emptied every morning, to allow for a new set of truths to come in. That’s right, she thought, I remember Toni and Andrea mentioning that now. So, she went back to her station and sat down.

Her day passed as uneventful as ever. Just the usual culture vultures and desperate, harried mothers with a child or two in tow, the odd street person or lonely senior citizen passed through Pepperdine Gallery, almost always the same crew, Marilyn judged.

She yawned. Rubbed her eyes. She shifted about on her stool as her bottom had grown rock-hard once again.

But then Marilyn saw her. Lexi. She suddenly appeared as if out of nowhere. Marilyn watched as the tall, willowy woman tossed a note in the Truth Jar then hurried away. Does she do this every day? What’s it all about? Maybe she is just having fun with the novelty of it all.

Making a bee-line to the Truth Jar, Marilyn sidled up to it and peered in. There were several notes in it and then one piece of the familiar mauve and flower paper. Lexi’s daily offering, Marilyn knew. Scooping them all up in one decisive handful, Marilyn picked through them. I’ll save the best for last, she thought.

Justin Trudeau sucks!
I hate Britney and Drew.
The campus is a politically correct shit-hole.
Why isn’t there any toilet paper in the washroom?
I think my neighbor is a crazy cat lady.
I just wanna go to Disneyland, that’s all!

Marilyn chuckled. Working her way through them, she had finally come to the mauve note. She held it in her hand charm-like. Then she read:

He thinks I don’t know about his porn sites? He has always believed that he knows me. But that I don’t know him. Little does he know hahaha.

Marilyn dropped the notes back into the Truth Jar. She jammed the mauve note of Lexi’s quickly into her pocket, however. She walked back to her stool and sat down.

While stumbling past her, Toni said,” Hey there.“

But Marilyn just stared deep into the space all about her.

The next day Marilyn hurried inside, even cutting her afternoon coffee break short by a minute or two. She rushed to her stool. She watched with bated breath as Lexi deposited her daily offering and whisked away. Marilyn walked briskly to the Truth Jar. Between short, shallow breaths, she fished each note out and read it.

Something stinks
I think the world will end in 2024
My hamster just died.
Hollyweird & Washington are tools of the Illuminati.
H.R. won’t hire Canadians!

Finally, Marilyn opened the coveted note and read:

I really am considering hiring a P.I. I just wonder what all things I might find out hahaha. Like is that Thursday night poker game for real or what?

Marilyn gasped. Like liquid electricity, she felt blood course through her veins. She looked about her in wonder.

The next few days, Marilyn waited in eager anticipation for the late afternoon appearance of Lexi. Like a cat patiently observant at a mouse hole, Marilyn would watch from her stool station. She’d feel her heart pound the instant she saw the blonde Venus emerge from the shadows and drop her daily bomb. For it was like a whole new world had opened for her. The air was electric, intensified. She felt like she lived in a whole new skin.

Then once she judged the coast was clear, she would rush to the jar, saving the mauve-coloured note for last of course, that daily itty-bitty epiphany.

She had always saved the best for last it seemed. It had been a lifelong habit of hers. Even as a child, when her legs dangled but didn’t quite reach the ground under the deeply scratched wooden tabletop, she would scrutinize the plate set before her, ordering the servings from the least to most delectable and palatable, with green vegetables generally kicked to the curb.

That night in bed, Marilyn imagined a variety of scenarios with regards to the Lexi issue. Romantic intrigues. Domestic disputes. Emotional meltdowns. Drama of the highest order like those old True Confessions magazines had sprung to life and danced Sugar Plum fairy-like across her inner screen. That is, until she passed into a sound sleep and inspected those very covers one by one.

Even though many of the notes were funny, with the predictable toilet humor and cutting-edge social commentary, Marilyn only lived for the coveted notes from Lexi. For it was then that she could assign a face and an identity to the curious admissions. It was then that the fiction in her mind grew. For the snippets of truth, the oh so very personal revelations took on a familiar quality as accessible as the long, sleek hair and impractical shoes.

For Marilyn, it was so much more scintillating than her usual work concerns. Like a lost child. Or a wandering drunk. Rather, it freed her from the realm of the banal as surely as the fleeting coffee breaks that posited her in snatches of sunshine, infrequent washes of light that poured down like truth itself.

Marilyn had even begun to believe that it was her duty to read the notes, especially the mauve ones of Lexi’s. She had even begun to forget about her guard duties, about the multitude of others who passed through the gallery daily. Instead, she believed that she had stumbled upon an intrigue of the highest order, uncovered a mystery so deliciously rich that it should be set upon as surely as chocolate cake. For it had become her Monday to Friday, 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 pm institution, the coup de grâce of her day.

Stopping to adjust her new blouse that insisted on creeping upward to reveal some unwanted skin, Andrea attempted to smooth the difficult fabric into place, but to no avail. It was revealing stretch-mark truths and tattoo disgrace, confessional and daring in one. She paused and frowned. Her eyes fell on Marilyn. Andrea waved.

But Marilyn stared past her, through her, it seemed.

Andrea walked away.

The next afternoon Marilyn stood in the entranceway of the gallery awaiting Lexi’s appearance. Better not stand right beside the Truth Jar, that might be too obvious, might spook her after all. Then, right on cue, the young, glamorous woman appeared. Through her peripheral vision, Marilyn saw the phantom figure fleetingly engage the exhibit then go.

Marilyn hurried to the jar. She fished the notes out excitedly, eagerly. But she had become less interested in the other ones. Just the ramblings of jokers and loonies and lonely hearts, the casual, attention-seeking public Marilyn believed. She believed that the other notes were just nuisance anecdotes at best, but the authentic voice, the true tongue inscribed its post-modern pearls on these tiny mauve tablets.

Still, she read the other slips of paper as ever.

I hate the Truth Jar
Who stole my Snickers bar?
Get lost.

Whatever... Marilyn dropped them back into the jar.

She paused with the mauve slip of paper in her hand. Like some bejewelled talisman, she held it with great gravity. Her palm began to sweat. Then she read it:

Well, he’s no Sam Spade, but he’ll have to do. I guess I was hoping for a Magnum P.I. sort of guy LOL. But I can’t believe what he charges! Cha-ching! Ouch! Maybe I should just do some of my own sleuthing. Channelling Miss Marple... V. I. Warchasky hahaha.

Marilyn felt a rush of excitement. She jammed the note quickly in her pocket. She had been collecting Lexi’s notes and had gathered a pile already.

She smirked as Toni and Andrea walked past. Little do they know. Little does anyone know. She felt a sense of almost smugness or pride to be the sole proprietor of a much-vaunted secret. It reminded her of the times as a child she waited on the hard wooden pew while her mother or someone disappeared into the confessional at church, into that odd little cubicle that she longed to explore. She had begun to feel like a Priest, a lone gate keeper, special somehow for being the only one privy to this racy underbelly, library Babylon.

Proceed to part 2...