Fact vs. Fiction

Being a fiction writer is both a curse and a blessing.

Blessing because I can write stories that only make sense in my head, and give my characters personalities and/or powers that are known only in my imagination. I can even make up whole countries or worlds and no one can argue with me. I’ve made a pretty penny doing just that.

A curse, because no matter what fiction category the book is placed under, there are always people writing me, yelling at me at a book signing, arguing with me at a cocktail party. All to tell me that, didn’t I know that so-and-so was impossible on Jupiter; or that the Mojave Desert couldn’t sustain life as I wrote it; and how can I call myself a writer when I can’t spell, etc. etc. etc. Haven’t these people any imagination at all?

It was beginning to weary me, and I was seriously considering retreating to a one-room cabin in the middle of the mountains, preferably on a planet far, far away. It therefore surprised the hell out of me when I began to be intrigued by tales told by a friend of mine over beer one night. These were not fairy tales, or make-believe, but true stories relating to the escapades of two friends of his. How did I know they were true stories? Well, this friend has a very lively mind for sure, and uses very colourful street language to match his normally peacockish attire, but one thing you can rely on: he is honest, straightforward and almost naïve in his dedication to truth. The other thing is; he just doesn’t have the fantasy in his soul to create such stories.

So I listened long into the night and scribbled down notes to myself. Looking them over the next day I was fascinated and suddenly overcome by an urge to write a story actually based on real facts, real people. That would shoot down those nitpicking, idealistic, no-imagination know-it-alls!

To give you an idea of what I was working with, these are the notes I eventually submitted to my Editor and Publisher to tweak their interest and support (have to really sell an idea to them if you want their money):

Two people came together in dedication to an ideal. Spawned a friendship seldom recognized in our tumultuous world. Developed a partnership of trust and equality even the gods never attained. Fought battles, back-to-back, in a system pulled apart by egos and greed. A system that demanded blind obedience to a leadership no one could agree on.

Their physical injuries where not the only indicator of an ever escalating war way beyond their control. The rewards for their pain, seldom given in respect, failed to heal the widening rift between duty and compassion.

Sustained by the small individual justices they could impose, and the strength gleaned from the other, they sped around in this isolated existence doing what they could. They were honoured by the friendships extended to them in acknowledgement of their honest attempts to make things better. Treasured the moments of peaceful contentment spent with warriors fighting similar battles.

It was with pride that they accepted the introduction as Starsky and Hutch, for there was no better way to show the world who they were, and what they stood for: two people who came together and…

Off I went, back to my friend seeking more information, and hopefully, introductions to sources with more insider details on the life of these two guys.

Now let me point out right here that any names and sources I quote have been changed to protect the individuals involved. I know only too well what can happen when determined readers get their hands on your name and address.

First of all, my friend (who shall be called Huggy) owns a small bar-come-eatery down in one of the rougher parts of Bay City. Huggy knows his streets and the people who dwell on them. He respects them, and protects them in a weird kind of way. They know he will listen and try to help but that he will not participate in anything seriously illegal or involving drugs. In his way he tries to make a bad scene better. Which is how he became a snitch for Starsky and Hutch (you got it, aliases), he was trying to help a friend get out of a possible confrontation with big time baddies. How he knew he could trust Starsky and Hutch I don’t know. You don’t ask how Huggy ends up knowing what he knows—it just is.

I spent three weeks draining Huggy’s brain dry before I moved on to other sources. The next move I had to consider carefully as you don’t tread into the areas of politics and public service without knowing, first, who the players are, and second, what the rules are. One thing you learn real quick in this business is that there are no secrets. An innocently asked question is going to be all over the city in the time it takes to finish asking it. No kidding. Huggy I could trust, I knew that, but anyone else, for the moment, fell under the umbrella of suspicious blabbermouth.

A trip to the library confirmed the accuracy of the limited major details Huggy gave me. It was surprising how often these guys had made the headlines. Ideas where running all around my mind like crazy: accidentally blinding a girl; warrants for murder; shooting of a young boy. The name Gunther fairly leapt off the fiche at me—wholly cow! This was all prime stuff for a writer.

The one source I knew I could tap without immediate fear was a newspaper colleague of mine. Jake was a good guy and would give me what he had knowing that I would return the favour when asked. Fortunately he worked the Metro beat, and several of the names he gave me corresponded to Huggy’s list. He even knew where I could find this Alice person, who, in his words, is a whore (I use prostitute, hate that word whore)—wonder if she was more than an information source for him?

Alice turned out to ply her trade from a very respectable, decently appointed suite of rooms in a rooming house. Yes, I said suite, complete with secretary and elevator music. I would have felt very safe I think with one of her girls if that were my reason for visiting. And, she was a lovely looking woman: soft, gentle very feminine face, hair and clothes; manners of a Southern Belle, but eyes of a fighter who had seen it all. I was suddenly overcome by an urge to write another story—this whole thing was beginning to get out of hand. What had I started here?

By the time I left Alice I had another picture of Starsky and Hutch to add to my growing gallery. She had obviously held back a lot, and I could tell there were hidden feelings colouring her words that only managed to relate the truth far more clearly. My respect for her started when she refused to talk until confirming my identity with Huggy—drivers licence etc. meant nothing to her; then when she considered her answers to some questions carefully, disguising unrelated facts; and when she openly discussed her business without shame. She was some lady.

My next move was dictated by politics—I paid a visit to the Police Chief. I needed official permission to interview cops and police personnel, but from my contacts so far I knew I had to cover up the real focus of my research. So my Starsky and Hutch story became a request to meet the people who did the job. All for the sake of an upcoming book of course. Damn I’m a good liar.

I managed to manipulate the direction of my research by saying I wanted insight on the inner city problems and so ended up with carte blanche at Parker Center. I wandered around the place for three days, popping in and out of offices throughout the building, trying to innocently bring Starsky and Hutch into the conversation. I got some good stuff about the guys, but most often people would say “You should talk to Minnie”. Even their Captain, Harold Dobey, who, by-the-way quickly saw through my false credentials, ended our conversation with the same thing.

Dobey was one of a few who showed unqualified respect and love for the guys. Absolutely love. I got the feeling he was talking about members of his own family and showed pride in what they had accomplished, under his direction, although he maintained they were mainly responsible for his grey hairs and addiction to Rolaids. It was all spattered with affection, humour and respect for his men and their unorthodox abilities to do their job. And that was important to Dobey; that they did their jobs with dedication, compassion and respect for the badge.

And so I went off to find Minnie, the supposed fountain of information when it came to Parker Center and Starsky and Hutch. What a little fireball! Tiny little thing that ran her domain with organized tyranny, and an insight that put things and people into perspective and order before anyone else knew what was going on. It took her even less time than Dobey to realize what I was really after, and then to order me out of her office. I can grovel with the best of them folks, plead and beg well too. But what sold it to her was my mentioning Huggy and Alice and Molly and all the little people I felt where more important to Starsky and Hutch than anyone else. Believe it or not, she had also read my books, and liked them. Did I mention before that I was using an assumed name for this little escapade? No? Sorry. Had to reveal all to Minnie, and off we went. It cost me the best dinner to be had to get her to talk to me, but well worth it by the end of the evening. What name did I use? Oh, all right—Mr. Ramon Marlene.

She left me with only one admonishment. Not to believe anything that came from those crazies at Venice Place. What? Never heard of it, and it took me quite a long time to make the connection between Starsky and Hutch and Venice Place. Now, to a writer, that was waving a red flag. Tell us not to do something, and for sure we’re off and running. So I ran—right into a blank wall.

Turns out I was looking in all the wrong places for Venice Place—who knew. It, and they, had nothing to do with police work, Huggy, or directly with Starsky and Hutch; although they seem under some delusion that they were neighbours. How did I find out you ask. Well, I was in a cab heading back to my room one day and picked up someone’s forgotten publication with the title “Venice Place Chronicles”. Don’t have to hit me over the head too often. Needless to say I absconded with it. I’m still trying to figure out whether this was a blessing or not.

Have you ever heard of fan fic? Neither had I. But let me tell you, if you ever decide to try and contact anyone who writes it, put on all your armour, take your nasty pills and be prepared to defend yourself to the death. My introduction to the whole thing, when I got past the suspicious guardian of the gate was a gal named Flamingo (I know more aliases). I’m still reeling from this energy packed, slightly paranoid, wholly focused power house. Man oh man I feel like I’ve been through the wringer and found wanting.

The outcome of this diversion was an introduction to an underground movement to turn Starsky and Hutch into folk heroes or something. Not only that, but its world wide. Can you believe that? They’ve got people from Spain and England and Germany and Australia and Canada all going nuts over these two guys. I don’t think I want to go there. This whole thing has taken over and become a monster; especially since my whole logical, proper thinking about Starsky and Hutch has been disturbed by reading their slash. I’m sure I blushed and then beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom.

But I did get to talk to some reasonably sane and sensible people involved in this fandom thing and think I might try and interview some more of them before this is over. They do seem to have a lot of inside information on Starsky and Hutch’s cases, although they also seem to have turned them into perfect examples for any psychological study of men you may want to do.

So far I’ve spent three months delving into the story behind Starsky and Hutch. I never had to work so hard on any other book, but then none of them ever crept into my psyche like SandH have done. Hero worship; jealousy; envy; respect, they all seem a part of my desire to write this book, fiction or not. And a desire for the whole story will probably keep me at it for another three-six months. Captain Dobey has promised to arrange a meet with Starsky and Hutch for later this month. Right now they’re undercover somewhere. One thing I’ve learned about them is you have to sneak up on them if you belong to any form of the media.

There are some amazing people involved in the SandH story, which is firing me up like nothing ever has. Guess it was time I realized that there isn’t any fiction without reality, and real people are the fact behind the fiction.