Here’s a “game” I dare you to play with me. Read the three small stories, below. Two of them are true. One is false. In the comment section, guess which one is the False story (and the reason you think it never happened). The one with the right answer and the most clever reason of why the story must be false, wins a copy of my romantic thriller, The Right Wrong Man, in paperback. (Thank you, Vanessa-Jane Chapman, for the idea!)
When my parents lived in Oklahoma City, I flew out to visit and join them for a week-long road trip through Oklahoma into Texas. Our destination was San Antonio, and we marveled at the geography, so different from New Jersey and the East Coast, where they (and I) had lived our entire lives. The bat caves fascinated us the most, until we ran into a different kind of creature the next day. After walking in the dark through all that guano, we drove to Austin and, by surprise, found the newly opened LBJ Library. We entered the beautiful foyer, amazed that no one else was there. The rooms were spanking brand new, the replications of the Oval Office and the Blue Room, spectacular. As we entered another hallway, my dad pointed to a wax human-sized replica and said, “Pammy, say hi to Lady Bird Johnson.” I approached the wax figure with a smile, a proffered hand, and said joyfully, “Hiya! My name is Pamela Wight.” The figure moved, smiled, and then I was surrounded by five black-suited men. They were secret service agents. The wax figure was real, and Lady Bird Johnson was on a tour of the (whoops, not opened-for-the-public) library. We were escorted out none-too-gently, and Lady Bird never did shake hands with me.
Last Friday night my guy and I decided to have a ‘date night’ at a local bar. The restaurant is fancy, but we prefer to sneak into a smaller back room, decorated in old pine with a curving bar and a half dozen small round tables strewn about for seating. We always just cozy up on a barstool and talk with the bartender, who pours our glasses of wine as soon as we enter the room. This evening, as we walked straight to “our” seats at the end of the bar, I noticed a nice-looking man hunched over a Kindle, sipping on a beer as he concentrated on what he was reading. Thinking nothing of it, I sat down, took a dainty sip of my wine, but then suddenly the Kindle was plopped down in front of me, and the man said, “Pam Wight? Look what I’m reading.” He was on the third chapter of my book, The Right Wrong Man.
Growing up in New Jersey, I was raised on the legend of the “New Jersey Devil.” He preyed on teenagers and lived in the Pine Barrens, a heavily forested area of coastal plain that leads to the ocean. Even though we teens were well aware that we had to drive through the Barrens to reach the beach – our most popular destination on a summer’s day – we did it weekly. One August, three of us spent too long sunning ourselves, so we didn’t begin our hour-long journey back home until after dark. Jonathan, our designated driver, cried out “uh oh’”about 20 minutes into the ride – his old orange Rambler was almost out of gas. The 2-lane country road we traveled was dark as sin, no street lights, and the sky was starless. As the engine began to thump thump thump, Jonathan pulled his car onto a long dark driveway and said, “Pam, you and Skip go knock on the door of that house and ask if they have a can of gas.” Young and stupid, we agreed. As we held hands and tiptoed across the pebbled road, we heard a screeching roar, and two humungous golden horns gleamed as the moon suddenly appeared from the clouds. We screamed so loudly we both lost our voices, ran back, pounding on the car doors until Jonathan unlocked them. The lights of the house blinked on; the police were called. They scoured the neighborhood and ran into two rutting male deer, who were fighting over a doe.
THAT’S IT! WHICH STORY DO YOU THINK DIDN’T HAPPEN?