TOF: The Truth About Fiction #2

[Michael D Friedman]

TALES OF FICTION presents...

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THE TRUTH ABOUT FICTION

ISSUE #2: "Family Tree"

Written by Michael D Friedman

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PREVIOUSLY: Austin Allen, a journalism student, recently found out that his grandfather, the famous science fiction novelist, R. Joseph Allen, died. Also, a buffalo imploded in Nevada.

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R. Joseph Allen was always an eccentric man. After gaining success for a series of twelve science fiction novels dubbed _The Planetary Wars_, he was the talk of the town, and that town was Hollywood.

His novels were bestsellers and he optioned them to a major movie studio for even more money. Joe, as he was called by his friends, was rich beyond his wildest dreams. He bought a mansion in Malibu. He had a collection of 20 sports cars. He was dating beautiful actresses, a different one each night. One of those encounters produced my father, Robert Allen.

Joe loved his son very much, but Robert's mother was more interested in heroin than her son. Joe raised Robert as a single father and taught him everything he knew about writing. Robert was a best-selling author by the age of 19 with his book, _The Mercury Chronicles_. 

At an industry party, Robert met children's author Peggy Weinstein, who was coming off her own best-selling release, _Marty the Mongoose Goes to Montreal_. Robert instantly fell in love. Peggy was the complete package -- smart, beautiful and funny. The two eloped five months later, much to Joe's dismay. Joe felt that Peggy was only in it for the money. According to Joe, the children's book market was not "fiscally solvent" and Peggy merely wanted to hitch her wagon to the rising Allen star. To prove a point, Joe cut Robert off financially soon after their marriage. The father and son grew apart and barely spoke.

Grandpa Joe didn't know for three years that I was even born.

He attempted to reconcile with my father at my fourth birthday party. It didn't go well. After a rather public argument, Joe had several drinks and decided to head to Las Vegas for the night, as he was wont to do. On the way, due to his inebriation, he took a wrong turn and ended up in the middle of the Nevada desert.

That night, R. Joseph Allen, my grandfather, "officially" discovered the first alien life form on our planet. Or so he says. Most people prefer to think he imagined it, or worse, made it up. But Joe insisted to his dying day (which I guess is today) that it was true.

According to my grandfather, the alien was wandering the desert alone when he came upon him in his car, almost hitting the tiny green man. As you can imagine, the fact that he was a "tiny green man" didn't really help his story, but that's how Joe described him -- about three feet tall with a large head, green skin and long fingers. This alien spoke to him in a language he could not understand, though it did try to communicate with him.

My grandfather reached out to touch him and just as he did, a large light shined down from the sky, like a spotlight on himself and the alien. The next thing he knew, the alien was gone, and Joe passed out -- he says from the stress, but most people think it was from the alcohol. At either rate, he awoke the next day, alone in his car, in a Denny's parking lot about a mile from the Las Vegas strip.

He drove home to Los Angeles as fast as he could. He held a press conference the next day to tell everybody what he saw. He went from the talk of the town to the city's biggest punchline. Nobody believed him. The press thought it was merely a publicity stunt for his latest novel, but Joe insisted that it was true.

"This is Non-Fiction," he reiterated several times. For that, he earned the nickname "Fiction Joe" and jokes were made on the late-night talk shows about his alcohol and drug use.

Joe was pissed. He knew what he saw was real, and he was determined to prove it. First, he quit drinking. He never had a drop of alcohol again. Then, over the course of a year, Joe sold off his palatial estate and almost all of his assets. He used the money to purchase nearly two hundred acres of land in the middle of the Mojave desert -- the place he encountered his alien friend.
 
He packed all his remaining possessions into his 1964 Bentley Continental and drove to the desert, never to return to L.A.  

At first, Joe built a small shack to live in. Beside it, he built a massive antenna which he used to broadcast a radio signal into deep space, hoping to attract his alien friends once more. Every night he would sit in his shack, telling tales of our world, stories from his life and general philosophical musings to any alien life form that was waiting to hear it.

It turns out, Joe had an audience. But it wasn't alien. He found plenty of followers from Las Vegas, about a hundred miles away. Lost causes, down to their last nickel, hoping to find proof of a higher cause, be it alien life or God himself. They found Joe instead. One by one, these lost souls made a pilgrimage to the Nevada desert. A small shanty town started to form, filled with "Josephists," as Joe's followers had dubbed themselves.

Over the years, the shanties turned into actual buildings. Restaurants and businesses started to pop up. A town was born, and the citizens asked Joe to lead them. The first order of business was naming the town. Joe decided to name it Fiction, Nevada, as one last  "screw you" to the elitist Hollywood snobs that made him an outcast. 

Joe eventually built himself a new mansion, a huge estate with every amenity you could image. But every night, he would sneak out to his tiny shack to broadcast his radio show to anybody that would listen. 

He did so until his dying day (which I guess is today...)

"Your grandfather is dead," repeats the voice at the other end of the line.

"I'm sorry," I answer, coming out of my daze, "who is this?"

"I'm your grandfather's attorney, Simon Malkowicz," he says before pausing. "As your grandfather's only living relative, I have been asked to pass along his wishes to you. Can you meet me tomorrow at my offices?"

"Sure, but where..."

"A courier will come by your residence with the details," he says rather clinically. "Thank you for your time."

The phone call ends.

***

I return to my dorm on the other side of campus. I've been contemplating my grandfather's life the whole walk home. I didn't know him all that well. He didn't even take me in when my parents died. But in the moments we had, I knew that he cared for me and I cared for him.

Still in a daze, I turn the key to the door, not realizing the commotion going on inside.

"Dude!" yells my roommate, Bubba. He looks exactly like what you'd expect, if you were expecting him to be a five-foot tall Asian kid with a sideways baseball cap and adorned in hip-hop gear.

Several of his friends are gathered around a laptop computer. My laptop, specifically. They are also specifically sitting on my bed and in my chair and on top of my pile of dirty laundry.

"We didn't know you was famous, bro," Bubba continues, gesturing toward the screen. 

There I am, in all my paused glory, a 12-year-old kid, at the National Spelling Bee in Washington, D.C.

"Where did you get this?" I ask. I certainly never kept a copy of it

"I Googled you, bro," Bubba grins. "Found this on some website, we've been playing it over and over."

I look at Bubba's giggling friends, barely able to hold back their joy at my humiliation.

"Yo. Play it again, Reggie," Bubba commands his friend.

Reggie hits the spacebar and the video resumes playing: "Chlorophyll. C-H-O-R-uh...I-R...uh...X-Z-Q."

My 12-year-old self looks like he's about to spew Spaghetti-O's all over the camera. A bell rings, confirming what I already knew at the time, I was eliminated. My next words are bleeped out and my eyes roll back in my head. The kid-me falls straight backward as the announcer can only muster an "Oh my!"

Bubba's friends howl in laughter, and I can't take it any longer. I snap the laptop out of Reggie's hands and yell, "Get out! Now!"

I point to the door. The group all just kind of sit there staring at me as if they were deer in my headlights. We have been roommates for about nine months and Bubba has never seen this look on my face before.

"Uh, yeah," he stutters. "Maybe y'all should leave. I'll meet you down at the basketball court. Cool?"

He shuffles them out of the room and closes the door behind them. He stands over me as I sit down on my bed.

"Sorry 'bout that. Don't let them get to you, bro," he attempts to apologize, somewhat. I guess.

I just sit there and stare my shoes, hoping he goes away.

"Yo dawg," he continues. "Is that a backstage pass to Haley K?"
I hadn't thought about my "celebrity encounter" since the phone call.

"Yes," I growl, about to lose my last nerve.

"You gonna go? I thought you hated her. I mean, I'll take the pass off your hands if you don't want to--"

I do lose my last nerve and yell something that would probably be bleeped out if this was on national television.

"Oh my!" is all Bubba can say. And with that, he finally leaves the room.

I lie down in my bed and shed a tear for my Grandpa Joe... 

***

There's a knock at the door in what only seems to be five minutes later.

"Go away," I yell at the door.

I wipe my eyes and look at the alarm clock. It's actually been three hours.

Another knock.

I stumble out of my bed and reach the door. I open it to see a man dressed in a chauffeur's outfit. He holds out his arm and shoves a business card in my face.

The card is black with only an address printed in small white lettering. It reads "187 S. La Brea, Los Angeles, California"

"Did you read it?" asks the chauffeur.

"Yeah, I--"

He cuts me off by stuffing the black card back in his interior coat pocket.

"Be there at precisely 8 p.m.," he says. He turns to leave.

"Wait."

He does not wait. He walks down the stairs and out of sight.

"How am I supposed to get to LA? I don't even own a car!"

***

Don't worry, I'll get back to the imploding buffalo in a bit...

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(c) 2015 Michael D Friedman.