IF OLIVER WAS going to tell the truth in his act, he knew just where to start. He poured a strong cup of coffee, clicked his pen into action, and turned to a fresh page in his notebook. Across the top of the page he wrote Officer Dan.
As he scrolled back through nearly two decades of memory, Oliver reminded himself that writing jokes and telling jokes were two vastly different things. His mission this afternoon was to collect raw material, to find the funny. It wouldn’t actually start to be funny until it simmered for a while. First he would need to tweak it, rehearse it, edit it, then edit it some more (hopefully without wringing all the funny out of it in the process). The only way to know if it was actually going to work would be to try it out in front of an actual audience.
First, he would need a way to transition into this particular story. But he could figure the segues out when it came time to put a set list together. He read what he had so far:
… not that I’m one of those guys that blames my parents for everything. That’s not my style—I’m way more passive-aggressive than that. I prefer to tell you my story in the most objective, even-handed manner possible, then sit back and let you guys blame my parents for me.
This all began when I was six …
Oliver stopped and scratched out the word six. It was technically true, but it didn’t sound as funny as seven. This was just one of many artistic liberties he would have to juggle along the way.
I was in second grade when I had my first brush with the law. When the cops found me I was trying to light a cigarette by rubbing two sticks together. It was a little after midnight, and I was strolling through my neighborhood wearing a stolen dress. Apparently, some concerned citizen called 9-1-1 when I unlawfully discharged a firearm into the Wilsons’ swimming pool … later, I would testify that I saw a shark.
Oliver struck through the line about the shark, then formed a large question mark at the end of the line. A domesticated shark didn’t seem scary enough to actually be funny. Plus, it wasn’t true.
The first cop says, “Okay, kid. Let’s put the gun down. Nice and easy.” He was the Good Cop.
So when I pulled the .40 caliber, 16-shot Glock 22 from the belt cinched around my flower print sun dress, the cop pulled his out too. He had a much better holster.
He asked me again to put the gun down, and I tell him I can’t. “Why not?” he wanted to know.
“Cuz when I put things down I always lose them. Just ask my mom.”
He said he’d be sure to do that.
“If I lose it I’ll be in big trouble. And I only need to be in a little bit of trouble.”
That’s when the Bad Cop came flying out of the shadows and tackled me in the dirt.
Good Cop tells Bad Cop to lighten up. Then they yell at each other for a minute or two, invoking the name of God and Jesus. And that’s when it dawned on me why they were so mad … I had probably interrupted a religious debate when I shot off the stolen gun.
Oliver paused and read what he had so far. It wasn’t hilarious, but it wasn’t bad. And it was accurate, at least in spirit. He underlined a few words he would want to emphasize, then made a note about not overdoing the stereotypical good cop/bad cop angle, where to put pauses, and the overall rhythm of the bit.
The first cop wanted to know how old I was.
“Seven,” I said. “And a half.” The second cop asked why I was wearing a dress … and how come his uniform was all wet?
“That’s Old Milwaukee,” I said, trying to be helpful. “You spilled it when you tackled me.”
Oliver made a parenthetical note to tag this last bit if the crowd did their part and laughed. Just in case, he wrote, Yeah, the Good Cop thought it was funny too.
He unloaded my gun and showed it to his partner, then asked me, “Where’d you get this?”
“From the pants of Sergeant Dan Something-ski.”
“Kowalski?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“You took this gun from a police officer?”
“No, sir. I took it from his pants.”
“And how were you able to come into possession of Sgt. Kowalski’s pants?”
“Easy. They were in a pile outside my mother’s door. I got his badge too, see?”
Oliver made another note to mime showing off the shiny badge pinned to his dress. Maybe even add a curtsy, if he thought he could pull it off.
They were impressed, I could tell.
“Officer Dan told me to beat it then, said they were doing grown-up stuff. But I know that’s just a nice way of saying he was about to adulterize my mother.”
The Bad Cop wanted to know more about the pants. “Where are they now? Still outside the door?”
“Oh, no. I had to hide them. You know, in case he woke up and was mad that I took his gun. It’s not even a very good gun. It only shot once.”
The cops shared another lingering glance.
“And what about those cigarettes? Those his too?”
“Uh-huh. And that was his beer. He’ll be mad you spilled it.”
Bad Cop was grinning when he asked, “And what about the dress? Is that Officer Kowalski’s too?”
Both officers thought this was hilarious. Which was good. Even at seven-and-a-half, I understood that things always go better when people are laughing.
I figured that was a good time to confess. “No, I got the dress off
Patty Brinkshire’s clothesline next door. I was gonna put it back after I did my plan.”
“Just what is your plan, by the way?” Good Cop wanted to know.
See, I was pretending to be asleep in my bed when my mom and Officer Dan came in. They sounded too happy and smelled like beer. And I don’t think Officer Dan knew I existed until he saw me wandering the hallway playing with his cell phone. He’d left it on the kitchen table with his watch and his keys and his wedding ring.
Anyhow, he snatched the phone out of my hand and silenced it. Then he told me I should learn to mind my own business and keep my hands to myself Otherwise I would end up just like my daddy.
“Wow,” I said. “You know my daddy?”
“Sure, kid. I know them all.”
“Really? You really know where he’s at?”
“I’m sure he’s in prison. Same as you if you don’t straighten up and stay out of people’s business.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sure I’m sure, kid. Now beat it. Your mother and me have some official police business we need to take care of. Why don’t you go play in the yard for a half hour or so? Give us some privacy.”
So I did.
On the way back to my house I asked my new cop friends if I was in a lot of trouble.
They said, “Not as much as Officer Dan.”
So I asked if he got to go to prison too.
“I don’t get it, kid. You make it sound like you want to go to prison.”
“Of course I do.”
“What in the world for?”
It seemed obvious to me, but I told them anyway. “To meet my dad.”
Oliver spent the afternoon tweaking and editing and shuffling sentences around. He condensed the story by half, then by half again. He even recorded it on a tiny tape machine, then tried to imagine where the laughs would come when he played it back. He doubted the routine would kill, but he hoped it would resonate. Either way, it had to be better than his experimental gig with Wendy.
When he tried the routine at an open mic later that night, he never anticipated getting choked up on the final punch line. When the words wouldn’t come he reached for his half-full tumbler of water, hoping that his casual sipping would appear nonchalant, a well-placed pause that allowed the audience to anticipate the payoff a split second before he delivered it. In reality though, he was trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He did finally manage to get the punch line out, but it was distorted, anemic, ineffectual. Not the high note he’d hoped to end on.
Thankfully he had the wherewithal to improvise a final line about the image playing out in his head.
I did get to see Officer Dan one final time though … when they escorted him back to the police car—they made him ride in the back.
He was wearing handcuffs … but no pants.