Based On A True Story Read online

A True Story

  By Jimmy Cheng (Mortimer Jackson)

  Copyright 2011

  1. Based On A True Story

  Have you ever seen a movie, or read a book that was either based on a true story, or a so-called autobiography, and you could tell it was complete bullshit just from looking at it? As I write this, I’m at home (oh sweet home) with Veronica, and we’re watching a Jet Li movie I pirated last night to celebrate the occasion of my recent return from prison. The movie in question is Fearless, which tells the tale of a cocky kung fu master who can fly fifty feet in the air, speak perfect English out of sync, and smash tables with his hands like they were cheap Hollywood props. The tagline of said movie is, as was written on the opening crawl, based on a true story.

  Veronica and I have been watching said-movie for about half an hour now. And while we’re definitely enjoying ourselves, we have to stop and laugh at the sheer notion that even a quarter of this movie came from something that actually happened in real life.

  “You know, this movie is raising my expectations for Asian people,” Veronica’s observation of our film. “If a guy can beat up that many people all by himself, then there’s no reason why Asian people shouldn’t rule the world.”

  I gave her an instructing finger.

  “We onry use ou powas for good young chird,” I explained.

  “I guess that makes sense.” It didn’t. “Say, what are you doing on that computer?”

  I typed her question down verbatim on my laptop.

  “I’m putting this in my next book.”

  “Putting what?”

  “This. What we’re doing right now.”

  “Seriously? What for?”

  “My next book.”

  Ever since my first book I, Jimmy Cheng hit the bestseller list, my publisher has been asking me to write a second. Nonfiction, he said, just like last time, and he specified that he wanted this to be exactly like the first book. Not verbatim of course, but he wanted the story to be about me. An autobiography of sorts, where I tell people about my life, and all the crazy real world problems I get myself into. This, because, and in his words, This real life shit sells more than fiction.

  Now, I’ve always fancied myself as more of a fiction writer. I like writing stories where I can get carried away with my creativity. Real life sucks. I don’t enjoy being bogged down to the cold, unimaginative laws of reality. I can’t really see why anyone else would rather read a book about something as dull and as morose as real life, and not something as zany and as fun as meta-fiction. Neither do I really enjoy writing at length about my personal life.

  But the demands of the publisher outweighs the needs of the author. Sad but true. Life is all about compromises. Having to do what your publisher tells you to in order to remain a bestselling author. Oh the humanity.

  “Don’t put me in your book,” said Veronica. “It pissed me off when you did it the first time without asking me.”

  “Oh? So…what? Do you want me to ask for your permission?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Then can I put you in my book?”

  “No.” Her brows furrowed at me with an intensity that

  “Are you still writing about me?”

  “Umm, I’m going to have to go ahead and say no.”

  Veronica sighed, and she tossed her back against my couch.

  “You wrote down a lot of personal stuff last time. Stuff that I never told anyone else.”

  That’s the thing about autobiographies. If you’re not careful, you can let out things that you really shouldn’t. I’d learned the hard way that Veronica had apparently never told her parents that she was going to go to college in Sonoma, wine country, in part because her stupid boyfriend was going there too. I had to apologize to Veronica for that.

  “And I didn’t appreciate you making fun of my boyfriend in your ridiculous book.”

  “I did no such thing. Did you even read my book?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  And merely out of curiosity, I had to ask, “Did you like it?”

  Her response was loud, and it was full of words not politically kosher enough for me to tell you what they were. Hell, I didn’t even understand the half of it she was talking so fast. She said a few things in English, then bantered on for an hour in her native Spanish. Such tends to be the way of my friend Veronica when she’s in one of her moods. Here, so you won’t have to be exposed to a whole mess of unpleasant vocabulary, allow me to summarize in my own words the brunt of what she said to me (as far I could understand it).

  “No Jimmy. I did not like your book even though everyone in the world knows that it was really really good, and really really insightful. Not that I’d have any idea though. All I read are shitty young adult books written for spoiled suburban girls whose only agenda in life is to find a man with pecks the size of a planet, and who preferably has fangs. I’m sorry that I have no idea what it means to live a truly difficult life or appreciate an original yet true-to-life story. But oh well.”

  I’ve always been willing to forgive Veronica her flaws as a person. But for what it was worth, she did have a valid point about one thing. Now was no time to start writing. I was supposed to be enjoying myself. Enjoying my time out of prison, and enjoying the movie. So I shut down the computer, sat next to my friend, and we had fun with the rest of our action caper biopic.

  “What are you doing with that computer?” Veronica was getting irritated. “I’m not here so I can be the only one watching the movie.”

  “I just had a thought and I’m jotting it down. Don’t worry; it’ll only take a minute. And no, it’s not about you.”

  Lie. It’s totally about her. Did you know that Veronica has at least ten moles on her entire body?

  In all seriousness though, what I really wanted to say is that it’s never been entirely easy for me to make new friends. Even now with all my accrued fame (or notoriety in some circles) from having solved the Melissa Wyndon case three months ago. So while it may not seem entirely obvious, I do appreciate the few friends I have.

  Now with that said, while my publisher won’t really like it, I’ve agreed to comply with Veronica’s wishes of not including her in my further writings without her express permission. And for that reason, I’ll be skipping the details of me and Veronica’s hangout session to something hopefully a little more exciting. Whatever that might be, I don’t exactly know. But I’m sure something will come up soon enough.

  2. Follow Up

  Remember before when I said I’d be skipping over to something a little more interesting? Well, you might not believe it, but something definitely more than interesting happened about a half hour ago. Something that you’re going to want to hear about (or read about as it were).

  It was about three hours after we were done with the movie, and Veronica left for home. That puts the time at around two in the morning. As I write this, it’s about two thirty, and I’m still shaking with all the adrenaline in my system.

  So it all started after I’d spent the last three hours after Veronica leaving by reading a book on my bed. Because books, you see, are my Nyquil. Never understood why. It surprises me that I’m the only one that ever gets drowsy from reading a book. Some people say it’s because of the books I read. But who could ever accuse Robert Freeman’s biography on Robert E. Lee of being a boring read?

  Anyhow, like I said, whenever I can’t sleep at nights, I grab a book, and after about forty pages in I’m fast asleep. Well, there was nothing new there. I learned what kind of cotton Robert E. Lee preferred on his pillows, as well as got a detailed insight into how he liked to chew tobacco. At about my usual forty pages I put the book down, shut the lights, and went straight to sleep. But (and mind you thi
s is where our story takes a turn), I realized I was hungry, so I put my clothes back on, went downstairs, and checked the fridge. I made myself a pepper jack cheese sandwich with pastrami when I heard this strange clicking sound at the door. Like someone was trying to open it, but they had the wrong key. The noise was pretty light. You might even say it was subtle. But seeing as how the kitchen was so close to the entrance, I could definitely pick it up without paying it much attention. And so subtle or not, it definitely caught my interest.

  I went ahead and opened the door just out of curiosity. And what do you know? There were three guys standing outside. Two standing, actually. One of them was kneeled over at the knob. A quick look at said-knob revealed something vaguely familiar-looking that even though I’d never seen it before in real life, I had a pretty decent idea of what it was.

  “Is that a lock pick?”

  They had ski masks on, and an empty gym bag strapped to their shoulders. Oh, and I forgot to mention, the three men were all dressed in black. And they were also black.

  As a side note, I think it’s worth mentioning that if real life ninjas exist, the ideal recruits to have would be black people. Think about it. In real life battle, people use war paint to change the color of their skin to suit their natural surroundings. Black people just so happened to be gifted in that they don’t need face paint to look like night.

  Anyway, that’s just an off-topic observation