REEXAMINING THE EVIDENCE

Please don’t prosecute me for something you’ve probably read years ago. I presented my tale, "A Creative Nonfiction Escape," to demonstrate how close I actually came to being arrested. Then I deleted my incriminating statement, and my accomplice, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine lost my 2008 statement on their server.

Once again, here is the real evidence in the form of a picture. Notice the busted windshield. Do you see its flaw? Do you see its cracked web of deceit on the passenger’s side? Ask yourself, "Is the writer telling the whole truth, or is something missing?" Maybe he should’ve been sent to prison. Where is his original statement?

Here it is, freshly typed from an old chapbook:

A CREATIVE NONFICTION ESCAPE

 I deliberately ran down a construction worker with my Ford Pinto as he sprinted along the shoulder of the road. I saw the whites of his eyes as he glanced back long enough to do the Fosbury Flop across the hood of my car. He landed somewhere in the weeds, and all I kept thinking was don’t stop now, keep going. I had been partying at Oakland University that night with my friend Scott. He rolled down his window and stuck his head into the wind to see if the guy was moving. Then, with a real sobering look, he said to me, “I think he’s hurt.”

I eased up on the gas. The other construction worker (there were two of them) ran into the ditch and helped his friend to his feet. He had a noticeable limp. “Now what?” Scott asked.

When you make split second decisions out of anger there are no long-term solutions to rectify the situation; there are only short-term fixes, last minute scramblings to avoid going to prison. I’ll admit things did not look good for me. I had a busted front windshield and would more than likely be charged with a hit and run, and if I begged to explain myself, I’m sure my defense attorney would cringe and advise me not to say a word. But here’s what really happened:

We traveled in silence along Rochester Road, heading back to my parents’ house. I had been driving the speed limit, when out of nowhere this truck appeared behind us, its bright lights invading the interior of my car and disturbing the night’s tranquility. “Who is this jerk,” I said into my rearview mirror. The truck passed us, and for some unknown reason, perhaps on impulse, I switched on my brights. “See how they like it,” I said to Scott.

They didn’t. They slowed their vehicle to a crawl, and every time I tried to pass, they sped up or veered towards the centerline. Then, as luck would have it, Scott recognized them. They were brothers, he explained, Joe and Bubba Hartley. “Pull over, Jim. I’ll talk to them.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

Just to be safe, I hit the electronic door locks. When they approached on foot, Scott started talking. They knew him, but they weren’t in the mood for friendly conversation. Bubba placed himself behind my car, while Joe stood in front of it. “Get out of the car!” Joe said.

“You obviously don’t know these guys very well,” I said to Scott.

They kept yelling at me, so I turned my stereo on real loud to drown out their demands. Then it happened. Joe, the guy in the front, took his hard-hat and smashed my front windshield. “Oh man,” I said, “you’re gonna pay for that!”

“That’ll teach you to mess with us,” he said.

I’ve already told you what happens next. It’s all creative nonfiction as far as I’m concerned.

When we arrived at my parents’ house, I decided to call the Michigan State Police. I felt I had no other choice. It was a risky decision, but hopefully I’d survive unscathed. Of course, like most criminal minds, my story changes.

“So, you accidentally hit the one guy because you were trying to get away?” the senior officer asked.

“That is correct,” I said.