TOF: The Truth About Fiction #1

[Michael D Friedman]

TALES OF FICTION presents...

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THE TRUTH ABOUT FICTION

ISSUE #1: "The Miseducation of Austin Allen"

Written by Michael D Friedman

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Before I begin, I would like to assure you that everything I tell you is fact.

Yes, I am Austin Allen. And yes, I am the son of the famous novelists Robert and Peggy Allen. And yes, I am the grandson of R. Joseph Allen, the "godfather of sci-fi," UFO hunter and general cult icon.

But just because my entire family wrote fiction, that doesn't mean I have to. And I'm not going to. I'm dedicated to the truth. 

***

Right now, however, I'm pretty much regretting that choice as I sit across from Haley K, teen pop star and general airhead. I'm attempting to interview her for my school paper, _The Mission Valley Signal_, but I'm mainly watching her smack her gum vapidly as she "thinks." 

At least that's what she appears to be doing. I'm not sure she actually does think.

I'm interviewing her at the sound check for her on-campus concert at Mission Valley College, where I'm finishing up my senior year as a journalism major. This story was assigned to me. I am not here by choice. I guess they wanted their best writer on the biggest news to hit our tiny suburban California school since... well, probably ever. 

For a moment, I contemplate how sad that statement is and forget what's happening... Oh yes, the interview. I'm waiting for Haley to stop twirling her bright pink hair with her finger and answer my question. This has been going on for several minutes now.

"Well, I guess I'd have to say, like, they should try hard to look pretty. Because cute boys will only like you if you try to be pretty and stuff," she blurts out.

So much for hard-hitting journalism. My question was, "How does it feel to be a role model to millions of young girls throughout the world?"

Maybe I should take it down a notch. Clearly, I've been assailing her with a line of questioning meant only for politicians and theoretical physicists.

"That was a tough question," she says, almost on cue. "Aren't you going to ask me about my boyfriend or my new line of perfume?"

I break my pencil against my notepad in frustration. I decided to go into journalism so I could make a difference. I wanted to interview presidents and Nobel prize winners. Instead I'm gossiping with a pink-haired idiot. Maybe this is some sort of hazing ritual for graduating writers. My editor is a sick son-of-a-bitch...

"Fine," I sigh, "how's your boyfriend?"

"We broke up yesterday," she says, almost too happy about it. "You should, like, print that, or something. It'd be, like, an exclusive. You'll sell a ton of papers."

"It's a student paper," I remind her.

"Yeah?"

"It's free."

"I don't see how you guys are going to make a profit if you don't charge anything."

"Thanks for the microeconomics lesson," I retort, realizing she probably won't get the joke. "Now I can skip Thursday's class."

She giggles at me and smiles, clearly not understanding a word I'm saying. 

"You're funny," she says, brushing her hand up against mine.

I think I'm being hit on by an international pop superstar. 

"Jonathon!" she yells, and suddenly a balding man wearing a black turtleneck and hipster glasses is standing beside us. He nods at me and smirks, almost like he knows something I don't. 

"Make sure Mr. Allen gets a backstage pass for tonight," she says, backing away slowly. "He's kind of cute..."

I _am_ being hit on by an international pop superstar.

She then turns and heads back to her dressing room in what can only be described as a skipping motion.

"Yes, Miss Haley," Jonathon yells to her as he pulls a lanyard from his back pocket. He drapes it around my neck, as if he were presenting me with some sort of royal honor, and grins again. "You don't deserve it."

He then walks away, leaving me by myself. 

"What just happened?" I think. 

I try to process it, but almost immediately, I get the call that will change my life forever. The caller ID says "UNKNOWN," which I wouldn't usually answer. But for some reason, this time, I do.

"Hello?" I ask.

"Austin, your grandfather is dead."

***

Meanwhile, somewhere in the middle of Nevada, a buffalo spontaneously implodes. This has nothing and everything to do with my story.

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(c) 2015 Michael D Friedman.