This little story, vignette really, concerns two men, two strangers, who met on a street some years ago as daylight faded. Most people had settled in for the night, the street generally quiet, echoing with far off sounds: a car honking, a young couple arguing, a child whining.
The city was Poughkeepsie, but that is unimportant. The date was October fourteenth, but that, too, is unimportant. The year was 1940, a tranquil year in Poughkeepsie, its residents blithely unaware or cruelly indifferent that men, women and children were being slaughtered in Europe, in Africa, in Asia—slaughtered in defense of their civilization and way of life. That too, is unimportant … as far as this story is concerned.
The two men of interest, the only ones on the street at the time, met abruptly as one leapt out of hiding and confronted the other. The “leapee” was Dangerous Dan: tall, burly, with a grim, severe face that inspired the “handle” (nickname) given him by compatriots. They, too, were robbers or, more accurately, thugs—rough, profane outlaws inclined to cruelty and violence. Dangerous Dan, on the other hand, took a genteel approach toward his profession, polite but firm, letting his pistol—a ’38 Special—do most of the talking. Poughkeepsie’s thugs considered him an oddity, a gentleman, or as they termed him, a “gent.”
The “confrontee” was a pasty-faced, thin—almost emaciated—stand-up comedian (or would-be comedian) called Bozo Bob, currently out of work for reasons soon made apparent.
Bob would never have said he was “out of work,” preferring the term “at liberty” instead. “At liberty” had a better sound to it, suggesting he was free of rigid scheduling, free of putting on stage makeup; free of facing a rowdy, hostile audience, or worse, an ice-cold one; free of contending with drunken hecklers, free of blinding spotlight glare, free of stage managers hurrying him to finish his act, free of smearing cold cream on his face and wiping makeup off, free of ducking club owners whose jaundiced eyes threatened job termination.
Of course, being at liberty had its drawbacks. You might be free of eating regularly. Then too, being at liberty might teach unwanted skills, like how to surreptitiously filch crackers left at vacated café tables. Or how to order hot tea, pocket the dry teabag, mix the tea’s hot water with a generous dollop of ketchup, and call the resulting brew “tomato soup.”
Bozo Bob wasn’t yet that desperate, having been at liberty only a week. He still had money, enough to fund a visit to a comedy club where he hoped to pick up a few pointers. He was on his way there when startled, alarmed, as a man jumped out of hiding and confronted him threateningly.
It was, of course, Dangerous Dan, who thrust his ’38 Special in the comedian’s face, saying grimly, “Your money or your life!”
The unfortunate comedian nervously reverted to form: “Did I hear you say, ‘Your money or your wife?’ … Is that a gun or are you glad to see me? … My, my! You seem a man of high caliber.”
“Shut up and hand over the money!” shouted Dan.
“Can’t,“ replied Bozo Bob. “All my money is tied up in cash.”
“Hand it over!” demanded Dan.
“Gosh! I’d sure hate to meet up with you in a dark alley.”
“Will you SHUT UP!” yelled Dan, then calmed a bit, growling in a deadly serious tone, “I’m warning you. One more word, and I’ll blow your brains out!”
“What word would that be, my man?”
“BANG!” spoke the ’38 Special.
It was a small, unimportant confrontation, gaining negligible attention in the press, and its trial was brief, poorly attended. After hearing the whole story, the jury acquitted Dangerous Dan.
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