A Million Little Lies

I finished reading James Frey's "A Million Little Pieces" last week. I had a strong reaction to the book for a handful of reasons. While I was reading the memoir, I could not put it down. I stayed up into the early hours of the morning to finish the book, knowing that I would not be able to concentrate on work until it was out of my system. I was consumed with this story, the characters, the graphic detail of sex, addiction and violence. I was captivated by the knowledge that the book was a truthful account of one man's struggle to overcome and persevere, and for awhile, I believed him.

"A Million Little Pieces" chronicles young James Frey's journey through alcohol and drug rehab. The book opens with James being transported via plane to meet his parents, who drive him to an expensive rehab facility as a last-ditch effort to save his life from 10 years of chronic and hard-core drug and alcohol abuse. James has apparently hit his rock bottom, although he remembers little of how he came to be on a plane with his teeth knocked out, his nose broken, a hole through his cheek, and wearing clothes covered with "a colorful mixture of spit, snot, urine, vomit and blood."

Once checked into the rehab facility, James befriends a variety of characters, including a federal judge, a high-ranking mafia figure, and a crack whore named Lilly. Although James refuses to "work the program" or participate with his counselors' recommendations, he overcomes his addictions, confesses to his laundry list of disgusting and violent past wrongs, and comes to terms with his family issues. He is successful at his goal of sobriety, and he walks out of the clinic hopeful for a better life.

And yet, when I finished the book, I did not feel triumphant for James and his sobriety. His story sucks you in, holds you tight, and then chews you up and spits you out. You feel dirty and disgusted and sad. After I read the last page, I wanted a double vodka tonic and a cigarette and a long, hot shower.

And over the next day or so, I couldn't stop thinking about the reality of the entire text of the book. There were too many little voices that bothered me about his account, his stories, his claims. It was not that I didn't completely believe his story. While I was reading the book, I believed everything I was reading. However, once I stepped away from the story, I questioned the severity of his addiction and the damage he'd done to his body, along with a million other pieces that just didn't add up in my mind. I assumed he had taken creative liberty with some of his story, but it was more than that. I just couldn't shake the feeling that this story had been greatly exaggerated. No doubt this author was a drug-addicted, alcoholic criminal in need of rehab. But was it really as bad as he claimed?

And what bothered me even more than whether he had fabricated or embellished his story was the praise he was receiving from people such as Oprah Winfrey. Oprah chose this book for her coveted Book Club, which inspired skyrocketing sales, instant mass media attention, and guaranteed success as an author. She had him on her show, and she praised him for saving lives with his inspiring story of overcoming demons.

And I kept thinking, "If I'm to believe the book, this guy destroyed his family, committed crimes, slept with prostitutes, degraded and humiliated numerous other human beings, disrespected his parents (but took their money anyway), sold drugs, sold himself, drank himself into a blacked-out stupor on a daily basis, smoked crack, snorted coke, huffed glue, popped pills, lied to everyone who ever tried to save him, beat a priest nearly to death (including landing several direct kicks to the priest's genitals) in Paris, France, and generally acted like a complete asshole for most of his life."

To top it off, James Frey came from an extremely affluent family who footed the bill for his degenerate lifestyle by providing him with a comfy financial allowance. Not to mention, his parents paid for his college education (which he somehow managed to participate in, join a fraternity, and complete in 4 years, despite his claims that he was in the midst of a gripping addiction that required daily feeding of mass quantities of drugs and alcohol), and several months-long trips to Europe. And they paid for his eventual trip to the best rehab facility in the country. Don't get me wrong - I'm not saying that affluent young men cannot or do not become alcoholics and drug addicts. I would venture a guess that it happens more often than society admits. What I am saying is that if you are drinking to the point of blacking out, snorting coke out of baggies, and taking every other drug imaginable whenever you possibly can, it would be a major feat to still manage to graduate from an undergraduate university like Denison without flunking out along the way. I'm also saying this kid was a privileged kid, which makes me feel less sorry for the mess of crap he found himself in at the age of 23.

I'm supposed to believe this book, and then praise James Frey's sobriety, and then be inspired by his ability to reach out to other addicts via some platform provided by Oprah Winfrey, and this guy nearly beat a priest do death in Paris? His portrayal of himself was among the most addicted persons my mind could ever imagine, but yet he subscribes to no program for sobriety other than, "Just say no," which may work for some but clearly not for the masses of addicts out there. I simply could not reconcile this in my mind. James Frey claimed to have served three months in an Ohio county jail after his release from rehab as his only punishment for the alleged felony offenses and criminal havoc he wreaked upon the world around him. His story isn't one of redemption and desire to help the world, but rather a story of self-promotion and bravado. At the end of the book, I did not think James Frey was a hero with a message to send. I thought he was an asshole who finally got sober.

The book is gripping, no doubt about it. I don't know if it would have been as gripping had I been told up front it was a work of fiction or simply based on a true story rather than touted as a non-fiction memoir of one man's journey. James Frey is edgy and clearly has talent to captivate an audience through his writing. Whether he wrote an accurate non-fictional account or a fictional "based on a true story" account, I would have likely enjoyed either version of his journey. But I don't enjoy being manipulated into feeling huge sorrow for a character (Lilly) only to have to question whether she actually even existed.

And this morning, my suspicions were confirmed. The Smoking Gun broke the story that much of James Frey's book is, in fact, fabricated and embellished. He exaggerated a great deal of his criminal record, and he fabricated several parts of the story, including an emotional turning-point about a childhood friend that was killed in an auto-train accident. The mug shots are not of the near-death addict dressed in clothing covered in blood, snot, urine and vomit. The mug shots are of a rich frat boy who drank too much, smoked some weed, and snorted some coke. James Frey probably was, in fact, in need of rehabilitation for his addictions. But his fabrications, his cover-ups, and his denials call into question the credibility of the entire book. The manipulative behavior of his addicted, alcoholic and criminal days apparently carried over into his literary endeavors.

James Frey is no doubt a brilliant writer, but not an honest one. This guy is just another alcoholic who lied to the world, got sober, and then continued to lie to the world.