The Vault

I was never a huge fan of Seinfeld, but I do remember a lot about the show. First and foremost, there was “the contest.” Then there were the close talker, the Keith Hernandez episodes, the parking lot, Putty, and so on and so forth. The reason I bring up Seinfeld, however, is not to discuss the effects that the show had on society. It’s not to discuss the awful final episode. It’s not even to discuss Jerry Seinfeld’s latest foray into primetime television with the almost unwatchable “The Marriage Ref” (seriously, have you seen this? It’s horrible. I could write a better TV show for a fraction of the money.). No the reason I brought up Seinfeld was for one thing:

The vault

The Jerry Seinfeld Dictionary of Terms and Phrases (oh yes, there is one. You can literally find ANYTHING on the internet) defines Putting Something in The Vault as: promising someone to keep something a secret.

I’m a fairly trustworthy person. I try not to lie. I don’t steal. I don’t cheat. In fact, I rarely get caught doing much of anything wrong. With a few minor exceptions, I’m a pretty straight and narrow type guy. I think that’s why people confide in me and allow me to put things in my vault. I think that’s why they trust me with anything from the latest trivial gossip to their deepest, darkest secrets. I appreciate the trust that people have put in me and I do my damndest to live up to the high expectations they have put upon my vault. I’ve kept so many secrets that I can’t even remember who’s secrets I’ve kept and what they are even about. Occasionally when out with someone, I will remember a secret that they’ve told me and giggle to myself because a: it’s usually pretty juicy, and b: I realize that I have ammo against them. Not that I would ever use it, but it’s there just in case.

“But Scott,” you say, “what’s funny about that? That’s awesome, people can trust you and you can keep a secret. Great freaking article. Thanks for wasting my time.”

There, my friends, is where you’re wrong.

Much like Elaine, I too have an unfortunate key to my vault. And although it’s not directly related to Schnapps, it does involve alcohol. Any alcohol. Any amount of alcohol whatsoever. If I so much as have half of a beer, I start talking. For those that hang out with me, you’ll know that unless I’m making a wise crack about something, my conversational skills are fairly limited. I’m convinced that nobody wants to hear my boring stories or listen to anything going on in my life. Like I said before, I pretty much fly the straight and narrow so most of my stories are pretty dull anyway. But once I get a few drinks in me, I want to talk. Since at that point I’m still convinced that my stories are dull, I realize that I have something else at my disposal. IOther people’s stories. Juicy stories. Stories that would be interesting if I told them and that would make me look cool for knowing them. Stories that always end up biting me on the ass because once again, I’ve opened my big mouth.

It’s nothing intentional and I mean no harm by it. In fact, I will rarely spill someone else’s story on someone who doesn’t have a vested interest in the person whom I am speaking of. I like to convince myself that I’m not gossiping, but instead spreading information for the good of the person with whom the story is about. I guess you could call me a mediator of sorts.

I guess you could call me a jackaass.

I wish I didn’t have this diarrhea of the mouth. I wish I could be given information on a confidential basis and keep it that way. I wish I didn’t have to show off that I know something that you don’t – it just happens that way when I get a few drinks in me. Once again, I keep the very important things to myself. I never share anything that would hurt someone. But it’s the little things that I find hard to keep inside. For instance, if you were drunk one night and used the potted plant in the corner of your room as a toilet, people are going to hear about it. If you slept with someone who you normally wouldn’t be caught dead with just because you were lonely, people are going to hear about it. And, if you tell me about some weird rash or burning sensation that you have as a result of sleeping with the abovementioned person, people are DEFINITELY going to hear about it.

Unfortunately, however, this is the cross that I bear. I am considered trustworthy and a good listener yet I know that I am only as trustworthy as the next bottle of Stag will allow me to be. I won’t stop people from confiding in me as I really, really want to be a good friend and a keeper of the vault. But, alas, it never seems to work out that way. My vault is easily opened.

So, for those out there that place your trust in me, although I’ve offered you no reason here, please continue to do so. Your deep dark secrets are safe with me. Please know that I always have your best interests at heart and if a little alcohol makes some of your secrets come out of me, then they probably weren’t important enough to be a secret anyway. And for those of you who still want to tell me your secrets, I promise to offer you my vault, but be aware that there is a key somewhere and people know where to find it.

On second thought, don’t tell me anything. We’ll stay friends a lot longer that way.