TOF: The Truth About Fiction #4

[Michael D Friedman]

TALES OF FICTION presents...

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THE TRUTH ABOUT FICTION

ISSUE #4: "Runningbear"

Written by Michael D Friedman

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PREVIOUSLY: Austin Allen, the grandson of famous science fiction novelist, R. Joseph Allen (recently deceased), wants nothing to do with fictional tales. However, the wannabe journalist has discovered that he now owns his grandfather's tabloid newspaper  _The World News Weekly_.

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Okay, so it's been a few months since I was told that I was now CEO and editor-in-chief of the tabloid-iest tabloid that ever tabloid-ed.

I haven't even been in to the offices. Heck, I haven't even been to the town of Fiction, Nevada, where they -- and my newly bequeathed radio shanty -- are located.

Instead, I've graduated from college and I'm living off-campus in a Mission Valley apartment with my old on-campus roommate, Bubba. Life could be worse. Heck, I'm a multi-millionaire just on The WNW's profits alone. Not that I want any of the money.

My attorney, Malkowicz, has been hounding me for weeks, asking me to check out the dump. But I've happily moved on to other pursuits. He can put away that money for a rainy day.

Okay, maybe "happily" isn't the right choice of words. After all, none of the big newspapers will touch me, especially when they know my "connection" to my grandfather's rag. Not even _USA Today_, for Christ's sake! 

But I'm getting by...

I'm editing for a living! The grammar! The glamor! 

Today's assignment is _Torpy The Torpedo_, a lovely children's tale about a poor submarine missile that gets lost at sea. Instead of blowing up U-Boats, Torpy makes friends with a tortoise and a starfish. He learns a valuable lesson that you can be anything you want to be, despite what others have planned for you

I am Torpy.

I'm just processing that thought when I'm interrupted by a large stack of newspapers crashing at my feet.

"Yo, homey, you got more papes," says my eloquent roommate. "You gonna read 'em.?"

"No, Bubba, stick them with the others."

Bubba sighs and tosses them in what should be the breakfast nook. It's now basically The _WNW_ archives, Mission Valley branch. His heave manages to knock over a huge stack of papers. They come tumbling toward me like a wave of tabloid sadness. Two headed man horses trample UFO abductee amputee transsexuals in an avalanche of Princess baby photos... and then I see it.

No, not it. I see ME. 

I see me and my parents on the cover of the May 12 issue: 

"AUTHOR ALLENS FOUND ALIVE! (SON REFUSES TO SPEAK)"

I think I will be making a trip to Fiction after all.

***

My parents are supposed to be dead. There was a tragic plane crash in the Alps in 2001 that nobody heard about because it happened the day after 9/11. I was seven at the time.

I don't remember much about it, but I do remember that Jamal Wilkins, the backup center for the LA Clippers, announced his retirement the same day. The news was similarly ignored for much the same reason, and also because the Clippers sucked at the time. But I was a fan.

What is remarkable about this otherwise side note in NBA history, is that Wilkins had just signed a new 5-year contract and was at the top of his game. He just decided to walk away from millions of dollars. He never said why, and nobody ever asked.

I tell you this, not because my parents mean nothing to me, but because Jamal Wilkins is now right in front of me, sitting on the hood of a broken-down Cadillac, on a dirt road in the middle of the desert, holding a goldfish in a glass bowl.

"Can I get a ride?" he asks.

***

Luckily for Jamal, the Bentley that my grandfather left me is a convertible, otherwise I don't think his 7'1" frame would've fit.

I had been driving along highway Interstate 15 toward Nevada for about two hours, my brain wandering and wondering about Fiction. What would the town be like? Had my granddad's crazy followers destroyed the mansion? Who would I kill when I made it to _The World News Weekly_ offices?

I wasn't wondering about my parents, who were obviously still dead. I just wanted to know if this was some sick joke to try to get me out there. Well, if it was, it had worked. I was going to make sure heads would roll. I may just shut down the whole operation.

The next thing I knew, however, I was off on a side road, in the middle of nowhere. And soon, that side road turned into a dirt road. I looked down at my gas gauge enough to be satisfied that I could turn around. And then I looked up.

And there was Jamal. I slammed on the brakes, and he said hello.

So, now we are back on the road. The real road, not the dirt one.

I finally get up the nerve to ask, "So you're Jamal Wilkes, right?"

"Runningbear," he replied.

"Huh?"

"I go by Runningbear now. Jamal Runningbear. It is the name given to me by my ancestors."

I smirk at how ridiculous this sounds.

"Don't laugh," he chides me. "I am 1/16th Xuatl Indian."

"Sure, sure. Okay, I didn't mean to laugh."

"You should respect all cultures, even those different from your own," he adds.

He's right. Torpy would've known that.

I sit silently for a second. There's an obvious elephant in the room. Actually, there's an obvious goldfish in the Bentley. I keep looking at it. There has to be a story there.

Jamal notices my attention on the goldfish.

"Does he speak to you?" he asks.

"Who?"

"The goldfish!" he says, gesturing wildly and almost spilling him. "I have been on the road for three days and he doesn't say anything to me!"

"Oh yeah, he spoke to me," I chuckle.

"What did he say?"

"He said, 'Can you believe this guy is crazy enough to talk to goldfish?'"

"He is my spirit animal!" Jamal spits forth in desperation.

I can see that I have upset him, so I try to calm him down.

"I'm sorry," I say. "You're right. I shouldn't mock other cultures. It's just... a goldfish?"

I can't really help it. It seems so ridiculous. Even when I try to steer away from the topic, it's just sitting right there -- puckering at me.

"You don't choose your spirit animal. It chooses you. I am on my vision quest."

Uh, wait. Hold on. Vision quest?

"Aren't you supposed to walk on a vision quest?" I say after my moment of befuddlement. "Like commune with nature or something? What were you doing in a Cadillac?"

"Walking in the Mojave? Are you crazy?"

Okay, so I'm the crazy one.

***

We get to a small gas station-slash-diner by the time the sun starts to set. We're not even back to the Interstate yet, so I decide to take a break.

"Do you want to get some food?" I ask.

"Can't," Jamal replies. "Vision quest."

His belly gurgles.

"Says the man who drives a Caddy..."

I walk into the diner. Jamal rolls his eyes, upset with himself. He gives up and follows me in, holding his goldfish bowl.

The diner is retro-chic. It tries way too hard to remind you what the 50's might've been like. You know, the whole Route 66 thing. There's an old man sitting at the counter who looks like he could tell you all about it first hand. 

Besides him, the place is practically empty, except for two bald men in track suits, sitting next to each other in the corner booth. They both look at me with an odd stare. I quickly look away, as weird bald men usually don't lead to anything good.

Jamal and I have a seat at the counter, and out walks a young, way-too-hip Hispanic hottie of a waitress. She's got beautiful green eyes, long black hair with a bit of a pink streak and lips that would make Angelina Jolie jealous. Her other assets are worth noting as well, but I'll leave the rest to the imagination. This isn't a harlequin romance novel. Let's just say, at the moment I see her, I think I'm in love. Seriously. She's that attractive. 

Her nametag says that she's called "Peliculas," but that can't possibly be her name. That's Spanish for "movies." I don't think anybody would name their child "Movies."

The waitress walks up to us, "Howdy boys, my name's Peliculas. What can I get for ya?"

Okay. Screw it. I don't know what to expect anymore.

And as if to confirm this, the two weird bald men in the corner jump up from their booth and yell, "It is him! Joe, it is him! Behold, the grandson, our savior!"

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(c) 2015 Michael D Friedman.