Hour 08/04

1984 | A Play in One Short Act

Criminal Behavior

By C. Burdette Merwin

Adapted for the stage by
the author from his novel
My Static Life of Perpetual Change

THE CAST

He: A man, slight, casually dressed, middle-aged and starting to look it

She: A woman, a bit younger, in a black dress, her hair in a ponytail

THE SCENE

A booth in a crowded downtown wine bar, dark enough so other patrons are heard but not seen. He and She are seated across from one another other, drinks and a candle on the table.

[The curtain rises on a darkened set, illuminated only by the candle on the table. The sounds of conversation, a television and general bar service clatter are heard. The background noise fades as the table is dimly illuminated, revealing the two protagonists.]

He: I got this round. Another of those?

She: OK, yes. Thanks. If you’re gonna have one.

He: Be right back.

[He steps away into the darkness. She lights a cigarette, looks at her nails. After a minute, he returns with glasses and sits.]

He (grandly): A Chablis for the lady. Sorry it took so long. Bartender was paying more attention to the game. So where were we?

She: You were going to tell me something unusual about yourself.

He: Was I?

She: Why not? Something interesting. Something to impress me.

He: Uh-huh. Where to begin? So many unusual things to choose from.

She: Don’t make fun. Just tell me something.

He: Alright. How about this? I can walk on my hands.

She: Oh?

He: Really. I used to do it to impress girls in high school.

She (doubtful): Hmm.

He: Wanna see?

She: Here? (Shakes her head emphatically) No!

He: You’re laughing at me.

She: I am not. We’re they impressed?

He: Who?

She (teasing): The girls in high school.

He: No, not much. Now you are laughing at me.

She (serious): I want you to tell me something unusual that happened to you, something that changed your life.

He: Changed my life?

She: Yes. And while you think of it, I’m gonna go pee.

[She steps away into the darkness. He stirs his drink, plays with the candle on the table, then looks up and smiles to himself. She returns and sits.]

He: OK, I think I have something. Are you good?

She: I’m good. Tell me.

He: This was back when I was in college. A freshman.

She (expectantly): Yes?

He: I got arrested.

She: Uh-huh. What were you, speeding? Jaywalking? Littering?

He: No. Nothing like that. I was impersonating an officer.

She: Impersonating an officer?

He: Yeah. A first lieutenant in the United States Air Force.

She (confused): What?

He: Yeah, right? You want to hear the whole story? It’s long.

She: It sounds unusual, so OK. But you’ll have to buy me another drink at the end.

He (laughs): Better get you another one now. Don’t want you to die of thirst along the way.

[He steps away into the darkness. She opens a small purse, takes out a mirror and checks her hair. As she lights another cigarette, he returns with glasses and sits, placing the extra drinks with the others.]

He: OK. So, like I said, I was a freshman in college. It was Thanksgiving, and we had a long weekend off. My girl friend was coming for a visit. She was flying into upstate New York from Denver and I had to go pick her up in Syracuse, about fifty miles from my college. She was still in high school and wanted to see me, but she also wanted to see the campus.

She: Was she one of the ones you impressed with your cartwheels?

He (frowning): It was walking on my hands, and no, she wasn’t.

She (coyly): Was she cute?

He: Yes, I guess so. I don’t know − I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter to the story.

She (apologetic): OK, sorry. Continue.

He: I left early on the morning she was coming so I’d get there in plenty of time to meet her flight. I decided to hitchhike to Syracuse and then we’d take a bus back to the college. I’d cashed a check for $50, so I had plenty of money for whatever we wanted to do − plenty of money for back then, anyway. I was excited, getting to play the big college man. The morning was cold and clear, and I caught a ride right away through town and out to the highway. My luck stayed good and a couple more rides got me just south of Syracuse.

She: Weren’t you afraid? Taking rides from strangers, I mean?

He: No, not at all. It seems risky now, but it was the Sixties and that’s what we did. What I did, anyway. So there I was, standing on the highway shoulder where the last guy let me off, my thumb stuck out, waiting for my next ride. I was right by an overpass and cars were whizzing by in both directions. After a few minutes, a patrol car came out from under the overpass, heading in the opposite direction. I saw the cop eye me as he passed, but he was on the other side of the road, so I wasn’t concerned. But then I saw him get into the left lane and cross over the median a few hundred yards down. He waited for a break in the traffic, and then headed back in my direction. I was thinking, Oh, shit.

She: What did you do? You didn’t run?

He: No, I didn’t run. I waited for him, thinking he was probably going to tell me to get off the road. Then, after he was gone, I’d get back out and catch a ride.

She: I’m guessing that didn’t happen?

He: You’re guessing right. I was standing there like a choir boy, all innocence, as the cop pulled over and rolled down the window. Where are you going? he said. I told him I was going to the airport to pick up my girlfriend. Hitchhiking is illegal on the Interstate, he said. Oh, sorry, I said, I didn’t know that. I’ll get off the road. Get in, he said, shoving the door open. Get in? That caught me by surprise. But I got in.

She: Uh-oh.

He: Yeah, uh-oh. The patrol car was warm inside and its police radio was making these buzzy, crackling sounds. There was a shotgun clipped to the dash and a heavy wire screen separated the front and back seats. The cop moved a big black flashlight and a ticket book out of the way as I sat down and closed the door. He was a New York State Trooper – he had on one of those Smokey-the-Bear hats they wear and a down-filled winter parka with a fake fur collar. Despite his aviator sunglasses, I could see he was just a kid, probably not much older than me. After a minute he said, (imitates the trooper’s voice here and throughout the scene) I need to see some ID. I gave him my driver’s license and college ID. You’re from Colorado? he said. Yeah, I said, thinking he was just gonna lecture me and then turn me loose. I’m out here going to college. OK, he said, not looking at me, You should know soliciting a ride on thruway property is a fineable offense. I’ll have to take you back to the barracks. I looked at him and I’m sure my expression was like what the fuck? But I didn’t say anything, and neither did he. We drove in silence to the New York State Police HQ in Liverpool, a funky neighborhood on the city’s north side.

She (concerned): What about your girlfriend?

He: Yeah, that’s what I was thinking while he was driving. Her plane wasn’t getting in until around noon, so I had some time. But why was he taking me in? I’d been kicked off the road for hitchhiking lots of times, but this was something new. I didn’t know what to expect.

She: So what happened?

He: Well, we got to the police station, this dingy one-story brick building with iron bars over the windows, and he took me in past the front desk and into a big room filled with other cops behind desks. He directed me over to one of the desks and had me sit down while he took off his hat and jacket. I could see his name stitched above the shirt pocket of his uniform − Kilby.

She: Were you handcuffed?

He: No, no, I was just sitting there, taking it all in. I’d never been in a police station before. The other cops were mostly on the phone, some were typing, but nobody was paying any attention to us. The room was hot, too − even with all the chatter, I could hear the radiators hissing. My officer sat down behind the desk, pulled open a drawer and came up with a plastic tray. Empty your pockets, he said, shoving it over to me. I pulled out my wallet, some loose change and few other things, a Chapstick, keys, my college meal ticket booklet. One item Kilby went for right away. It was a little pocket knife, about an inch-and-a-half long. He slowly opened it, all seriousness, and held it up. I’d hate to see someone coming at me with this, he said.

She: Why? Was it dangerous?

He (laughing): It was a toy! A novelty. My dad had gotten it from the cleaners that did his shirts. It had their name and a slogan on one side. A Cut Above the Rest, it said. I almost laughed in the guy’s face. Right then, I knew the whole hitchhiking bust was total BS.

She: So then what happened?

He: Trooper Kilby started writing me up, pulling my driver’s license out of my wallet and copying the info. After a few minutes, he turned and looked me up and down. Is that a military blouse? he said. What? I didn’t know what he was talking about. Your jacket. Air Force, I think? I’d never heard the term blouse – to me, that was something ladies my mom’s age wore. No, no, I said, I don’t think so. Yes, it’s Air Force. Where are you serving? Where’s your unit based? My unit? I was so surprised I didn’t know what to say.

She (confused): What was he talking about? What was it you were wearing?

He: I had on this jacket I’d bought in a seedy Army-Navy store that sold military surplus in Boulder. It probably cost me all of five bucks. It was light blue and had rank stripes on the shoulders and a wings patch on its front, and I thought it looked cool. It didn’t have any buttons, so my mom bought some with eagles on them at Woolworth’s and sewed them on. It was cold enough that morning that I should have worn a heavier coat, but I wanted to impress my girlfriend.

She: Silly boy.

He: I didn’t know how silly. So Kilby said what’s the Air Force base near Denver? Buckley? I told him I had no idea. I have to make some calls, he said. He got up and went over to another desk, one with several phones with push buttons. Over his shoulder he said, How tall are you? Five-ten? Then he started making calls. So I’m sitting there, wondering what the fuck? Where was my lecture and my ticket and my you’re-free-to-go? Did this guy really think I was in the military? You have to realize, it was 1970 and I had bushy hair out to here, long enough so I looked like a broccoli with legs. No way anyone would think I was a soldier. This had me so distracted, I didn’t notice an older guy eying me. He had just come into the room and was dressed in street clothes. When I did look up, he was standing over me, arms crossed, a scowl on his face. (Imitates the older cop’s voice) What have we here? he said. When I didn’t say anything, he bent down, his face right in mine. What’s that? he growled. What? I said. That! he barked. He was talking about a button pinned on my jacket. It said End the War Now, and I’d gotten it at a Student Mobilization protest at my high school. It’s, uh, a peace button, I managed to say. The cop stood back up and stuck a finger in my face. You know something, punk? he said, sneering. You’re a real asshole. A fucking asshole!

She (taken aback): Nice!

He: Yeah. I didn’t know what to do. This guy was as old as my dad, and I’d never heard an adult use language like that before. That scared me. Was he gonna hit me? I thought he might. But then he just flipped me off, spun around and walked out. I felt my throat get tight, and I thought for a moment I was gonna cry. (Becoming serious) A realization overwhelmed me − these cops could do whatever they liked to me. I was completely powerless. It didn’t matter who I was or what I’d done or not done – to them, I was just another lowlife, a criminal. (In a lighter tone) Meanwhile, Kilby was describing me to somebody on the phone. What rank is that? he said, twisting to look at me. Lieutenant? He turned back to the phone. Yeah, he’s a lieutenant. Nobody like that? OK, thanks. He hung up and dialed another number.

She: He thought you were an officer?

He (laughs): Yeah, an eighteen-year-old Air Force lieutenant with an Afro. Ridiculous, right? He was just fucking with me. Even then, I knew the whole thing was a scam, a power trip. I was just too intimidated to do anything. He spent forty-five minutes on the phone, calling Air Force bases in Colorado, New York, even Rhode Island and Massachusetts. Nobody was missing a woolly headed officer, no one had a AWOL hippie pilot. So he sat back down at his desk and said to me, I guess you’re telling the truth about not being military. But that blouse is Air Force, so I have to charge you with impersonating an officer of the Armed Forces, a misdemeanor in the State of New York. You’ll have to be arraigned before a judge on Monday morning.

She (doubtful): You had to go to court? Over that?

He: Uh-huh. It was Saturday, and I’d have to wait two days for the courts to open. Kilby said I’d have to spend the weekend in jail. I can’t do that, I said, starting to panic. I’ve got to pick up my girlfriend at the airport in less than two hours. I wasn’t impersonating anybody – really, I got this coat at a surplus store! He didn’t say anything for a minute, and then he shrugged, his tone different. Well, if you plead guilty, I might be able to get you before a judge this morning. He lowered his voice. You’ll have to agree to enter a guilty plea, though. OK, yeah, that’s OK, I said, relieved. I didn’t care what happened as long as I wouldn’t have to spend a couple of nights in the Liverpool lock-up. OK, I can do that.

She (incredulous): So they made you confess to masquerading as an officer? How could they do that?

He: I don’t think it was the first time they’d scammed someone. Trooper Kilby made another call, and fifteen minutes later we were back in the patrol car, riding through the city streets. He eventually turned into a development cul-de-sac, a street in one of those neighborhoods where all the houses are the same except for the color. He pulled into one driveway and then escorted me around to the back door of the house, where an old guy in a wife-beater undershirt and suspenders dangling down around his knees let us in. This geezer, I realized, was my judge. His Honor was unshaven, with tufts of wispy white hair circling his bald pate and reading glasses perched precariously near the end of his ruddy nose. He had a mug of coffee in one hand, and he used it to direct us down the stairs into the basement, flipping on lights as we went. We descended into a typical suburban rumpus room − a pool table, big color TV, a couple of BarcaLoungers, the whole scene.

She (laughing): That’s where you pled guilty? In the judge’s basement?

He: That’s where. The weirdest part of it was, there was a bar at one end of the room. It had beer spigots, stools, bottles, a big mirror − just like in any neighborhood tavern. The judge went around behind it, pushed up his glasses and glanced through the paperwork Kilby had brought along. I felt like he was going to serve me a beer. Instead, he reached down and brought up one of those wooden mallets they use for crushing ice, and rapped the bar counter with it (thumps three times on the table). Just like he was seated behind the bench in a real courtroom. (Imitates the judge’s resonant voice) The Justice Court of the Village of Liverpool is now in session, he said. The Honorable Danton L. Bagley presiding. Kilby was standing to one side, hands clasped at the waist like he was an usher at a funeral. I just stared at the old man, this bartender of justice, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Trooper Kilby, the judge said, looking up. Will you please read the charge? The officer rattled off the complaint, and then it was my turn. Staring at me, Bagley said, How do you plead, young man? Guilty, uh, your Honor, I replied. The judge whacked the bar top again with his mallet. Case closed! Trooper Kilby, you will record that on this day, this young man pled guilty to and has been convicted of impersonating an officer of the United States Air Force, a first degree misdemeanor in the State of New York. Bagley peered at me over his half glasses. The court will take possession of the offending garment and will impose a fine. He squinted, his voice suddenly becoming less officious. How much money do you have, son?

She (surprised): Wait – he asked you how much money you had?

He: Oh, yes. He wasn’t going to risk undercharging me. So I told him I had fifty bucks. Alright, he said, give me forty-five. And I’ll take the coat. I pulled out my wallet and counted out the bills. As I started to take the coat off, I hesitated. But I don’t have another jacket, I said quietly. It’s really cold outside, and this is all I have. Kilby, taking pity, spoke up. It is cold this morning, your Honor. Maybe he could keep the coat? The judge looked annoyed – he didn’t like being second-guessed in his own courtroom, even if it was only a basement bar. Well, I suppose it would be alright, he said, staring hard at Kilby. Turning to me, he commanded, But I want all those insignia cut off. The buttons, too! So I took the coat off, sat down on a bar stool, and hacked off the stripes and the wing patch, plus all of the buttons my mother had lovingly sewn on just a few months before. In an ironic touch, I did the work with my little pocket knife. The cop brought it along in case it was needed as evidence. Of what, I don’t know.

She: What a crazy story! It would be funny if it weren’t so sad. But did you ever get to the airport?

He: I did. Right on time. After my trial, Kilby drove me there.

She: Really? So maybe he felt bad?

He: Maybe. But I suspect my twenty bucks in his back pocket eased whatever guilty feelings he might have had. I figure he and the judge split the fine.

She (doubtful): You think so? That wasn’t very much money.

He (knowingly): Yeah, but they probably had a regular weekend routine going. The cop would bring the suckers, the judge would shake them down. Twenty bucks here, thirty, maybe fifty there. It adds up.

She: And so that experience changed your life?

He: It did. I’ll tell you why. When the cop dropped me off at the airport, as I was opening the door to get out of the patrol car, he reached over and offered me his hand. Not knowing what else to do, I took it and we shook. I hope this experience has been a lesson for you, he said solemnly. I didn’t say anything, but I clearly remember thinking, Oh, yeah, it’s been a lesson, motherfucker. (Quietly, but with emphasis) See, the money didn’t really matter, and even the fact that I now had a permanent police record in New York State didn’t matter. What mattered, what I learned from the experience, was that power is easy to abuse, and the powerless are easily abused. When the guy leaned over and shook my hand, he was redeeming me, like I was some kind of criminal who had paid his debt to society. All is forgiven, that gesture clearly said. Then and there I knew it was all a crock. Right and wrong is a game people in authority play, and ever since I’ve tried to opt out. (Sitting back, authoritatively) Because, you see, everybody’s somebody’s criminal.

She (pausing to reflect): Wow. That’s a pretty cynical philosophy.

He (brightly): Yeah, but it’s why I became a public defender.

She (impressed): Oh? So you’re a lawyer for the defense?

He (smiling): No, I just made that up. I’m actually a school teacher. Chemistry. Speaking of which, how’s ours?

She: Hmm … I don’t really know. But that was definitely an unusual story. Shall I reciprocate and tell you about the time I did a Kiowa sweat lodge ceremony in New Mexico? And met Jesus?

He (doubtful): You met Jesus? That may require a fresh round.

She: I thought you’d never suggest it.

He (laughs): Sorry, criminal of me!

[Fade to black.]

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

C. BURDETTE MERWIN, known commonly as “Burdy,” is considered the founder of the modern literary genre “philosophical realism.” Born in New Haven in 1952, he began his adult life as a watch repairman, but soon took up modelmaking and scientific illustration for institutions like the American Museum of Natural History in New York City and the Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago. He also began creating artworks in mixed media and writing art criticism for magazines like Artenol, Art Schism and Gesso Quarterly. His first novel, Actio’s Quest for Meaning, received mixed reviews, but it was followed in quick succession by Lost in the Lexicon and the four volumes of The Demiurgus, the epic work that established Merwin as a titan of literature infused with obscure philosophical arguments masquerading as common folk interactions. He currently teaches Dialectical Aestheticism at St. Cosmism College in New York City.

Copyright © 1984 by C. Burdette Merwin
Adapted from My Static Life of Perpetual Change
published by Pernivrue Editions, Telos Books 1976
All copyrights renewed

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that CRIMINAL BEHAVIOR is subject to royalty. It is fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America, the British Commonwealth, including Canada, and all other countries under the Copyright Union. All rights, including professional, amateur, motion pictures, recitation, lecturing, public readings, radio broadcasting, television, and the rights of translation into foreign languages are strictly reserved.