The Real Fictional World, and Where Kim Came From

The Real Fictional World, and Where Kim Came From

A writing teacher told me I couldn’t use the name Denny’s in a story because they might sue me. I thought I would be overjoyed if Denny’s sued me, because it meant someone was actually reading my story! Holy hell, how cool would that be? A Denny’s executive, reading my story, saying, wtf? Is this story for real? That girl’s dangerous!

It’s risky using actual events in a fictional story because you may find yourself not willing to bend the event to fit the needs of the story, some little voice in your head saying, that’s not the way it really happened! The needs of the story trump the need to be factual. But I like to use real experiences, at least the parts that add something to a scene, and I’ve solved the problem by just calling everything fiction. I hope it will keep me from getting sued, but, hey! if not, I hope I made you really uncomfortable!

In The General and the Horse-Lord, just out from Dreamspinner, there are several scenes that are real, or based on something that really happened. I went to Isotopes Park, to the ball game, and screamed like a loon when the boys won by a beauty of a home run with the bases loaded. I took careful notes of the park, wanting to hit the nail on the head in describing it. The man sitting behind me poured his beer down the back of my shirt in the excitement of the moment, but that detail added nothing to the scene, so I left it out.

Ho Ho’s, the Chinese restaurant on the corner of Yale and Central, is actually called Big Chow’s, which I think is even funnier than Ho Ho. I changed it so they wouldn’t sue me. I was in Big Chow’s when two elderly Chinese women working behind the counter got into a pot sticker fight. I mentioned this in the story, but I didn’t have John watch the entire fight, because mediator that he is, he would have stopped the fight and negotiated peace, and that scene actually would have added little. I love Big Chow’s. They have a special of 10 pot stickers for 2 dollars. I love you guys, so please don’t sue me.

I was looking through my files of old short stories, looking for something else, and I found a story called Goldenboy I wrote several years ago. This story is not only true, but also factual. I did go to New Orleans on a field trip the year I was twelve, and I did have the encounter I described in the story. What I didn’t realize until just now is that I probably based the character of Kim on this boy. Strange how the mind takes our memories and turns them into beautiful stories.

Anyway, here’s Goldenboy:

On the bus ride to New Orleans, the nuns reviewed our schedule: light breakfast at Café Du Monde, walk around Jackson Square, the buddy system was in effect here, go into the cathedral and light a candle and pray if we were so inclined, and a late lunch at The Court of Two Sisters. If anyone snuck off alone, or set one foot on Bourbon Street, we would be loaded back onto our bus and driven home in disgrace. Donna Brown was my assigned buddy, and I was happy for this because I was hoping we could be friends.

New Orleans is full of disturbing ripe smells. Down in Jackson Square, the chicory coffee fought against the heavy wet tang of the river, the shrimp boil coming from little French houses, yeast bread, cherry tobacco from someone’s pipe. The waiter at Café Du Monde had a black moustache and lines around his eyes, and he gave me a sip of black chicory coffee and then laughed at the look on my face. “Black is too bitter for a young girl,” he said. “Try it with the cream and sugar.” And he poured a cup from a steaming pitcher held high. The little square donuts were just out of the fryer, sprinkled with powdered sugar, and the coffee smelled so dark and rich, it was all so rich, the donuts and the river and the thick sweet air, it was all I could do not to bury my face in the plate and eat it all up like a dog.

Donna Brown told me she wanted to go into the cathedral and light a candle for her grandmother, and she showed me the fifty-cent piece she was going to put in the box. I told her I wanted to walk around Jackson Square and look at the pictures and the artists. We agreed on one circuit.

The boy had skin that was strangely golden-colored, with black eyes shaped by a country a long way from America. He was nearly naked, smooth golden chest, long golden arms, wearing a pair of dirty white shorts and some flip-flops. He was sketching, a pad of paper against his crossed thigh, a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. I must have stood there for a moment too long, staring at him, because he started smiling, glancing between me and the paper.

“Look at this,” he said, and held up the sketch. A little kid in a plaid skirt and white blouse. He thought I looked like a baby. “You can have this for five dollars,” he said.

I put my hands behind my back. “I don’t have five dollars.”

“I’ll just have to keep it, then.” I looked at his face, strange smiling eyes shaped like a quick curved line of charcoal, that beautiful skin. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, held the filter toward me between two fingers. “Taste this.”

His fingers smelled like smoke and oil pastels, and I took the cigarette between my lips, held it there, felt his fingers touch my cheek, and he smiled at the smoke rising in the air between us.

Donna grabbed my arm, pulling me away. “I’m telling Sister what you did,” she said, and I jerked my arm out of her hand, looked back at the golden boy. He was sketching again, but he looked up and winked at me, the cigarette back in the corner of his mouth.

We went straight to the Cathedral, knelt in front of the votive candles, and Donna’s fifty-cent piece would not fit in the box. I closed my eyes, tasted chicory coffee and cigarette smoke, felt his fingers touch my cheek, and I prayed and prayed and prayed.