Spinning Real Life: a satirical novel

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An idealistic young man turns his back on the family business and sets out to become an important writer of real people, real issues. He lands in a funky trailer park in the far northwest corner of California, where he meets the odd characters who will shape the next year of his life. As he struggles to create relationships and reality based art, the bizarre real world happens all around him.

Scott sat down and wrote not about saving the trees or the animals or the watershed, but rather about saving the human psyche. He made a case that woods and other wild lands act as a balm for the stress and anxiety of civilized life. Without those places we become neurotic, needy, obsessed, and unethical. He speculated that perhaps if more people took the time to take to the woods, there would be less corporate corruption, people selling watered down medicines, road rage, domestic violence and a host of other civilized ills. Cutting down the forests, he insisted, would be to doom humanity to a dog eat dog life in a concrete jungle, a post apocalyptic nightmare.

When he finished, he realized that most of what he'd said had already been said in one form or another, but pulling it together at this time and in this place was, in his opinion, an original act and a necessary reminder to the public.

He may not be holed up in the woods, surrounded by soldiers or being dragged off by police in the middle of a protest, but he was getting involved, and that involvement was growing.

He no sooner e-mailed his piece off to Rob's desk, when there was a loud knock on the door. He opened the door to two men in dark suits and overcoats. They had closely cropped hair, black dress shoes, and expressions of icy malice. They held out badges that identified them as FBI.

"Scott Mukis?'

"Why? What do you want?" He tried to hide the nervousness in his voice.

"Don't try to deny it. We know who you are."

"I'm not trying to deny anything. Can I help you?"

"Perhaps we can help you. May we come in?" The question was absurd, as by the time it was asked, they were coming through the door. "It would be in your best interest to cooperate. Have a seat young man."

Scott opened his mouth to protest, but the four piercing eyes acted like force fields, pushing him onto the end of the bed. The two men sat at his two dining chairs.

Without further small talk, one of the men began. "What is your involvement with this radical environmental group?"

"What involvement? Which group?"

"Don't act ignorant. We know all about you and your editorials. Are you working for these people?"

"What people? I'm…I'm a reporter. This is a hot issue in this part of the state."

"Uh huh. You imply that you have sources, people that know who started these suicide missions. If it wasn't you, who was it?"

"Wait. I don't have any information. It's speculation and rumors. I'm looking at all explanations."

"The names of your informants, please."

"I don't have informants, and besides, I'm a reporter, and there's the freedom of the press thing, so even if I did have informants, which I don't, I wouldn't have to tell you." Scott was scared but also getting mad. How dare they come in and accuse him of all this crap. For a moment he considered naming Buck, but he decided that they wouldn't get that out of him, even if they used the rubber hoses on him.

"So, you're protecting your fellow conspirators. I suppose you were conditioned to take the rap for them."

"Nobody conditioned me to do anything. Besides, what rap? What are you accusing me of?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Mukis. We have to finish our investigation before we can accuse you. Now what about this guy you wrote about, the one who likes to fight and went off to join the agitators? Suppose you tell me who he is and where we can find him."

"He's just a drunk who hangs around the local saloon, and he told me he was going looking for the protestors. I don't know where the hell he is."

"You're not doing yourself any good, Mukis. We know about your involvement with campus radicals in Long Beach. Is your friend Cynthia Malone involved in this group?"

"Cyn? I haven't see her for almost a year. She's more into human rights, but she does environmental stuff now and then. She could turn up at a protest somewhere."

"So, she's your contact among the protestors?"

Scott found himself almost shouting. "I don't have contacts. I haven't see Cyn since she broke up with me. I just wrote some opinion pieces, and last I heard that's my first amendment right."

"So, invoking the first amendment in your defense." One man was doing the talking, and the other was making notes in a small notebook.

"I don't have a defense. I didn't do anything. What do you want from me?"

"The names of the people in your organization, for openers. How about this Maddie Kobzev? We see she's a social scientist at a liberal university. What's her connection?"

Good God, Scott thought, they know all about me. They probably even know I was in the woods today.

"Was she the one you were meeting in the woods today, or was it Cynthia, or maybe this unidentified local drunk, or perhaps the guy who made all the calls taking credit for the suicides? It sounds like you're in it up to your neck. Make it easy on yourself and come clean right now."

Scott's suspicion and fear of authority was no match for his anger or outrage. "Perhaps you'd better tell me what the hell I'm into up to my neck. As far as I know there's no law against protesting. There's sure as hell no law about reporting and writing opinion. If a guy wants to run in front of a truck or run off to join a picket line, I don't think there's a law against that either. Even if I knew about what those guys are doing, there's no law against that. I'm a reporter and a citizen, and I've got goddamn rights, and my paper has lawyers who'll be down to the jail in a moment to get me out. Now, if you're planning to arrest me, here." He jumped to his feet and thrust his wrists forward. "And, if you do, you damn well better tell me what I'm charged with. Perhaps I'd better call my boss right now, so he can call the lawyers."

"There's no reason to get excited. We're trying to conduct an investigation here, and you're not being cooperative."

"You damn right I'm not. You gonna charge me and arrest me? If not, I've told you every fuckin' thing I know, and I'm not answering any more of your questions."

"Sit down, Mukis." The violence in the voice brought Scott back to the bed. "We're not arresting you at this time. We've noted your reluctance to cooperate with the justice department. For the moment, we have no further questions, but don't try to leave the country. We will be watching you, waiting for you to slip up. Disloyalty to your country is considered pretty cool to you privileged, college types. But, let me tell you, when the security of this nation's at stake, all your father's money won't save your hide.

Now, think about what we said, and if you decide to be reasonable, call us." He thrust a card in Scott's hand as the two of them turned on their heels and walked out into the driving rain.