Chuck Palahnuik, �Stranger than Fiction�
I know that writing fiction is working out quite well for Palahnuik, but I�ve noticed with the four novels that I read by him that he sometimes gets bogged down near the end with too many things going on, and it can become quite a mess.
With this collection, Chuckie�s going the non-fiction route with magazine type feature pieces. Some of these were in fact commissioned for magazines. What they got was worth whatever his commission was, as the vast majority of these stories are great.
Of course, this being Palahniuk, the subjects that he�s picked to report on are a little on the fringe. In other words, totally on the fringe. Sex parties. Guys from the Midwest who live to modify their tractors for a Road Warrior type demolition derby. People in Hollywood. It all works. Besides, he�s right � truth is usually stranger than fiction.
And since I brought up my arrest in the last entry, I may as well present it now, as it fits that criteria. The story was published when it first happened over ten years ago in a shitty magazine that turned out to be a slick vacuous glossy local music magazine, so Brian already knows about it. Anna too, if she�s still reading. I figure it�s new to most of you, and besides, I know a little more about sentence structure now. Of course that all goes out the window with a few drinks, which is what I�ve had, but what the hell.
Anyway, there were four of us living in a three-bedroom apartment in the middle of a heavy gang area. The Crips didn�t really present much of a problem for us even though one of them did punch me in the face once to prove that he was hard to his buddies, but he was reprimanded as we knew how to throw parties, and were thus deemed a�ight.
Most of our friends at the time didn�t have places of their own, so our home was the natural place to gather. Despite being in a high crime area we didn�t bother locking our doors. This was in part because we didn�t have anything of value to steal, partly because the Crips had deemed us untouchable, but mostly because we were sick of people complaining that they spent the last two hours sitting on our porch waiting for somebody who lived there to come home.
After living there for about six months, we started hearing complaints from visitors. As soon as they entered the area, they were being pulled over and harassed by police. After a dozen or so complaints, it became obvious that we were being targeted.
At first we found it funny. We were nothing more than a bunch of high school white kids with bad haircuts, and yet we were the ones being set up for a raid. Meanwhile, we got to watch gang members point guns at each other and heard gems like, �I ain�t worried about the cops, I got the crack stuffed up my Cooch!�
None of the people who actually lived at our apartment had been stopped yet. I wasn�t driving at the time, so I guess I snuck into the perimeter unnoticed. Then one day I walked out of my shitty restaurant job to find one of my friends waiting outside. He showed up because he needed to buy me beer. I needed beer too, and as you couldn�t walk through my area with alcohol without being hit up, this would work out well.
We bought three cases, loaded it into the backseat, and headed toward my house. Then the sirens and lights started.
�Shit,� I said.
�What?� asked the driver, knowing the lines from The Blues Brothers as well as I did.
�Rollers.�
�No.�
�Yeah.�
�Shit.�
The cop came up to our car and saw all the beer in the backseat. The driver wasn�t 21, but I was. I explained that is was my day off.
�You expect me to believe this is all for you?� he insinuated.
�I have a three-day weekend!� I answered with a big smile. He didn�t like that. He took both of our identification going back to his cruiser to call us in. I turned to the driver as we waited. �Is this the guy that�s been harassing everybody?� I asked.
�Oh yeah,� the driver said.
And he was a dick. After failing to find anything he could bust us on, even after trying for twenty minutes, he let us off with a warning: he said he didn�t want to see us in the area.
�Well, you better close your eyes, then,� I said, ��cause I pay rent in this area. I�m afraid I have to pass through this area in order to get home.�
�Don�t get smart with me, boy,� the cop said.
�Too late,� I answered. For whatever reason, he didn�t beat me with his nightstick. It must have been because I�m white.
Anyhoo, a week later, I was getting another ride home from work. This time, it was from a cute hostess at work that I was interested in, a girl who had the unfortunate name of Anita Kauk. (She called herself Shelly.) We had plans to get some preliminary booze and go to a punk show downtown that night. We stopped at the nearby mini mall for cigarette supplies.
Running into the store, I passed by a police cruiser parked two spaces down from us. I figured this must be our stalker, and made a mental note of its position. After purchasing three packs of cigarettes from the liquor store, I skipped back to the car.
I passed the cop car in mid trot, leapt up. I did a perfect pirouette and spat directly on the middle of the back windshield. It was large, thick, and full of the colors you would expect from a smoker. I landed with a flourish, and then did the John Travolta strut back to Anita�s...I mean Shelly�s car, jumping into the passenger side.
�Let�s roll,� I said.
We were pulling out of our space when I saw the fat sweaty cop lumbering toward us, a cop different from the one who was harassing all of our friends. And I have to mention this, as it�s absolutely true � he came running out of the donut shop with fried bread still in hand.
He blocked our exit and ordered me out of the car. Busted. I was ready to accept it � after all, it wasn�t the cop that I thought it was. And I�m not anti cop � I even know a few who are OK � I got ready to apologize, realizing that I was going to have to wipe that disgusting thing off his back windshield, probably with my hand.
Instead, I was put in handcuffs and stuffed in the backseat. I�ve had this happen before as well. It�s a scare tactic. But after ten minutes and noticing that he was merging onto the freeway heading downtown, I realized that this case might be different. He hadn�t given the standard speech about how much trouble I was in. In fact he hadn�t said anything, including that whole thing with the Miranda rights. I looked at my phlegm, still stuck on the middle of the back window, thick and green. Finally, I spoke up.
�Hey, am I under arrest?�
�Oh you bet,� he said.
�You mind telling me on what charge?�
�Oh, I�ll think of something,� he said. Then, after a moment, he said, �I�ll get something on the window, but what�s gonna hurt is when I find this in your jacket.�
He held up a plastic bag with white powder.
�And then I�ll find a little more of it shoved under your seat when you get out.� He looked back at me and grinned.
The singer of our band, Preachers That Lie happened to have a father who was a high ranking official in the police department, in a total punk rock movie clich�. I decide to drop his name. I also dropped about three other names, all higher in rank than he was. Then I mentioned that I was a journalist, and if he thought he could bully me, he was in for a big fucking surprise.
But I wasn�t completely standoffish. I knew that this cop could cause me serious problems � the guy with the green hair isn�t likely to win in a case of he said/he said in an authoritarian setting. I explained how it was a case of mistaken identity, but stopped short of apologizing � after all, the cop who was harassing people might have been a dick, but he didn�t attempt to fake felony charges on people.
He pulled into the precinct. We sat in the parking lot in that hot summer�s day for 30 minutes. The cop had strategically parked his car so he would be in the shade, while I baked in the California sun. He pored through his standard issue cop arrest booklet, looking for something to charge me with.
Stuffed into the hot car with no ventilation, I sweated it out. Finally, he started cackling. �Oh, this will work,� he said, opening the back and pulling me out. �Let�s get you into booking.�
He pushed me against the hood and told me to stay put. He searched through my jacket pockets, pulling out a contact lens container. He opened them up, finding my contacts still inside, as I was wearing my glasses.
�Oops, they fell on the ground, and I accidentally stepped on them. Sorry.�
�Well, the prescription was wrong, that�s why I don�t wear them,� I said. �Don�t worry about it.�
�You have such big pockets for this jacket,� he teased. �I�m just wondering what we�ll find in them.�
Another cop car pulled into our lot, and my officer quickly ended the search, pushing me toward the door. We went into the booking area and he cuffed me to a chair.
�You just wait here for a second,� he said to me, winking. �I�ll be right back.�
�No, actually, I think I�d like you to stay with me,� I said.
�It�ll just be a minute.�
I screamed in the middle of the crowded, busy room. �This man has told me that he is going to plant drugs in the car, and I want him to stay right here with me at all times!�
The room fell silent, the entire place stopping to look at me.
And then they all started laughing.
I was incredulous, but didn�t have time to respond. The cop grabbed a form and said he�d take me up to booking himself. She shoved me into an elevator. The doors slid shut on people I could still see smiling and giggling.
He stuck his finger in my face. �You better knock that off. People are going to think you�re crazy.�
�Man, fuck you. You think I�m going to just sit back and let you railroad me? You�re not dealing with an idiot here. I�m gonna scream long and hard to every single person I see, and you can bet that I�ll write about it, AND get it published, all with your name and badge number...�
The elevator doors slid open again. A clerk walked in, carrying an armful of files. The doors slid shut, and we started ascending again. There was an awkward silence. I turned to the clerk.
�You know, this guy said he�s gonna plant drugs on me.�
He laughed nervously. �He�s crazy. Don�t pay attention to him.�
She got off on the next floor.
We reached the booking area. A rather bored looking cop started going though my leather jacket. �Anything I should know about in here? Any knives or sharp objects?�
�Well,� I said, �He said he was going to put the cocaine in my right front pocket, so you should check there first.�
The booking officer looked at me, and then at my arresting officer, who started laughing nervously.
�He�s crazy,� he said.
The booking officer looked in my right front pocket, finding nothing but my contact lens container.
�You wearing these?� he asked.
�No, they should be in there. But this guy told me that he dropped them on the ground outside and stepped on them, so it might be empty now.�
The booking officer looked non-passively at the arresting officer again.
�The guy spit on my car,� he offered meekly.
The booking officer looked at me and smiled. It didn�t take a genius to figure out (although I am a genius) that they didn�t like each other. I made a note of that.
�Yeah, this guy, he�s been giving me lots of problems. Make sure you put him in with all the junkies and faggots.�
�Aw, man,� I said, �I don�t wanna go to your mom�s house again!�
And the booking officer burst out laughing.
I was booked, however. Fingerprints, permanent file � the works. My mug shot was one of the only pictures I�ve ever taken that I actually liked, as it shows me in full Muppet wide open mouth grin. They wouldn�t give me a copy, even though I begged. Five hours later, I was a free man.
The charge for which I was arrested for was eventually dropped, but only because no prosecutor would pick up my charges. I had to go to court three times before they were finally dismissed. I can see why it wasn�t picked up with enthusiasm: What he eventually charged me with, after searching for 30 minutes, was something that was set up for a person who set off a smoke or a stink bomb in a public arena. The wording went something like this:
�Anybody who willfully discharges a liquid or gaseous substance that is nauseating to the general public shall be tried under this code.�
It was a pretty gross gob, if I say so myself. I guess I was guilty.
Stranger than fiction indeed.
