True Story
Thursday, January 12th, 2006in the summer of 1989, i lived in Texas and had just completed my first (and what turned out to be my last) 2 semesters at the University of Houston. because i lived in an apartment instead of the dorms, i had difficulty making friends, especially since i was shy. at the end of spring semester, i found a job as an admin at a small telemarketing company. i also moved in with a high school friend who was originally from Houston and had just moved back from Chicago. between these two events, i finally had a circle of friends, and although we were different in very many ways, we had one thing in common: we were big-time stoners.
as a favor for my friend Jim, i agreed to pick up his girlfriend one afternoon in downtown Houston, where she worked at the Enron Building on 1400 Smith. i was nervous because i didn’t know my way around the downtown area, it was rush hour, and i was completely baked. the sunshine reflected from the many glass buildings towering over me only added to my confusion.
i crept around the block of one-way streets looking for Wendy, who was waiting for me in front of the building. a policeman stood on the street, just outside the entrance to a parking garage on my left. as i approached him, he gestured for me to continue forward. or so i thought. well, i did exactly that–kept on going and ended up running into him.
my dad once told me that he didn’t care what i did as long as i didn’t get caught. however, if i ended up in jail, he wasn’t going to bail me out. this was going to be the first time, i was sure. not only was i stoned out of my mind, i hit a cop with my car! and not a cop sitting in a squad car–it was a cop standing on his own two feet on the street!
i was only 19 years old. my life would be ruined. my parents would be disgraced, not only within their Filipino-American community, but within the entire Natividad clan as well. i had been the family black sheep since my pre-teenage years, and now, i had cemented my destiny as the Natividads’ least wanted.
to my relief, the policeman didn’t crumple to the ground. i wasn’t driving fast, maybe 5 miles an hour, probably less. he merely lost his balance. once he regained it, he gestured for me to continue forward, and this time he exaggerated his arm motions, so there was no mistaking what he wanted me to do. he didn’t ask to see my drivers license. he didn’t order me out of the car. he didn’t even say anything to me through my wide-open window as i drove past him.
seconds later, Wendy was sitting beside me. as soon as she shut the door, we rolled away. and i passed her my pipe.
i’ve shared this anecdote for a number of reasons. first, i’ve been kicking around the idea of a new category relating moments from my past so readers can get to know me better. that category is called “Back in the Day.” some of the posts that will fall into this category may be mundane, while others, like this one, are almost difficult to believe.second, i was inspired to share this story after reading an article to which Gladys from The Story of Why provided a link in a recent post. the article, entitled “A Million Little Lies”, was published on January 8, 2006, on The Smoking Gun (TSG), and exposes James Frey, author of the bestselling memoir and Oprah’s Book Club selection, A Million Little Pieces, as a fraudulent writer. TSG states that the book’s turning point is an incident during which Frey, drunk and high on crack, writes that he unintentionally drove onto a sidewalk and hit a foot patrol officer with his car.
this episode, as Frey describes in his memoir, ensues into an altercation involving himself, the patrolman, back-up officers, and 30 people who witnessed the police beating him with billy clubs for refusing arrest. (i’m not going to discuss how or why this event is crucial within the memoir’s structure because that isn’t my point here.) according to the police report TSG located, what actually happened was that Frey drove onto a sidewalk on which there was indeed, a policeman, but nearly hit a pole, not the officer. that incident, the factual or the fictitious version–it doesn’t matter–provided me with the spark to write my own hitting-a-cop-on-foot-with-my-car-while-fucked-up story. i mean, every former substance abuser has one. right?
ironically, i was going to name the “Back in the Day” category “True Stories.”
so, do you really believe i hit a cop with my car while i was fucked up?
