I rode the eastbound Max train Monday from Pioneer Square in downtown Portland, Oregon, to the airport. The train was not crowded – just me, a youngish couple to my right, two guys further up with their bags near their feet and their cell phones holstered like six-shooters, one lone eastbound commuter and a woman with a baby stroller. No one spoke above a whisper.
Until Bliss boarded.
The kid wore a baggy blue hoodie and pants he looked in immanent danger of losing. His head was shaved, and his feet were dirty. He strode into the car, and I looked down to keep from making eye contact. He zeroed in on the couple next to me, extended his hand, and said “Hey, man, I’m Bliss – where are you guys from?”
“I never read fiction,” the friend standing before me declared. “I only read stories that are true.”
The literary gauntlet was thrown down – and a challenge accepted. We agreed to swap books. He offered historical non-fiction in exchange for a novel. I accepted his worn copy of Endurance – Shackleton’s Incredible Voyage, and offered him an equally treasured paperback version of Ernest Gaines’ A Lesson Before Dying.
The leap of faith was mostly his. I’m almost certain Gaines’ novel was the first one my friend had ever determined to tackle start-to-finish. (Plans change.) But the pleasure, I’m afraid, was mostly mine. A Lesson Before Dying is fiction that reads like fact, and in the deepest sense of the word, it is completely true – even though its characters are imaginary.