The Day of Deception: An Exercise in Creative Writing

Some of the greatest days of my life were when my family owned two televisions. I’m not necessarily one of those kids who would rather spend all day in front of the TV instead of playing with their friends; I just liked the idea of the television. The way that one show could be sent to millions of different viewers all at the same time; and that even though I could turn the TV off, the shows never stopped playing. I always pictured one little, jolly, man who was in charge of every channel, and got to watch hundreds of TV screens everyday, all day. I so desperately wanted that job. When I was a kid the television was magical.

If there were one thing about television that I loved in particular, it was the commercials. Especially around Christmas time. Every commercial that played for a dollhouse or a Barbie, even Legos and board games, I would respond by turning to my mom and saying “I want that!” The commercials spoke to me and I was their religious follower.

Then one day, the TV deceived me; and not just the TV, a commercial nonetheless. I can remember the event vividly. My mother was away on her annual skiing trip with her friends, I remember this part because it was my dad who aided in the TV’s dishonesty. If my mom had been around the whole event may not have happened. However, my dad and I were watching the television and when the commercials came on, the first one in the line up was for Arby’s.

I had never seen an Arby’s commercial before and I was entranced. The size of the sandwich, the delicious looking deli meat (which the thought of now, makes me a little nauseous) the entire commercial made their sandwich look so appealing that I needed to have one. I immediately turned to my father and said my usual line “I want that!” My dad looked at me quizzically, because he knew what I didn’t: the sandwich in the commercial looks nothing like the actual sandwich. He also knew that I was a very picky eater and never liked any type of sandwich (save for peanut butter and jelly), but for one reason or another he decided to take me to Arby’s.

In the car on the ride over I was ecstatic; I pictured the sandwich in my head and couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into it. We pulled up and got out of the car to go inside. (I actually think I may have skipped inside, drawn into the florescent light like a moth to a sandwich flame.) I told the man behind the counter the exact name of the sandwich that I had seen on the commercial: a “Super Roast Beef,” how could it not be good, it has “super” in the name! The man brought the sandwich to the front and placed it on the tray, it was wrapped so neatly in that silver paper that I felt like it was a present, given to me by the one man watching those hundreds of TV screens.

My dad and I sat down and I slowly unwrapped the paper. Finally, getting the entire sandwich revealed and sitting sadly in the center of the crinkled paper, I started to cry. This was not the sandwich I ordered. This looked nothing like what I wanted. How could this ugly sandwich be what was in the commercial? I knew I had said the exact name of the sandwich that was in commercial, why did this one look so undesirable? I was crushed.

My dad picked me up and threw away the sandwich. Not even he wanted to eat it, and he ate a lot of things. When we got home I cautiously walked into the living room, glaring at the television. It had betrayed me. My dad sat me down and tried to explain that sometimes what we see on TV may not be the truth. He told me that the people who create the commercials want you to buy their product, so they make it look really good for TV. I felt cheap and used. I couldn’t believe that the television had tricked me. Had I not been faithful? Had I not treated it with respect? All I did was stare at it in admiration all day, and what did it do to repay me? It lied.

From then on I couldn’t trust the TV. I no longer yelled out “I want that!” at the end of every commercial at holiday time. My vision of that little man watching all those TVs had become tainted. He no longer had a look of joy on his face. He was now a gloomy, portly gentleman with stains on his t-shirt. It was no longer the dream job I yearned for. When I was a kid the television was magical. But, sadly as I grew up the novelty of certain things wore off and things that were once miraculous are now merely a lesson I learned one chilly night at Arby’s.