Hey, Page. Whatcha doing?
“I drew on the shape!”
That’s a letter, buddy.
“From my pen pal?”
Not that kind of letter.
“Ohh! Trey is teaching me them, but they are so confusing.”
Not really, buddy. 26.
“Is that this many?”
Put your hands down, Page. People can see.
“Okay. Do you know Trey? Trey the Phish?”
Trey is a Phish.
“NOT a Grateful Dead! Do you know how many kinds of pickles there are?”
“YES! I cannot keep–”
“All right, listen, and if you mention what I’m about to tell you to anyone, I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll find out where you live and slit your throat in your fucking sleep.”
“Don’t call me that, asshole.”
What’s happening here?
“I’m not actually retarded. I got stuck in this weird lie when I met the rest of the band, and I don’t know how to get out of it.”
“I was just trying to make them laugh! It was our first rehearsal, and I started doing the voice. Just to get a laugh, but THEY BELIEVED ME and now I have no choice but to go with it.”
It’s been 30 years.
“Right! If I had come clean after a decade, then it would have been weird, but still acceptable. You can move past a decade-long lie. But 30 years? Nah.”
You’re locked in.
“A little, yeah.”
“Very little responsibility.”