The Last Laugh

by Arjuna Ardagh

  “Drink your tea,” he said. “We’ve got to get going. Did you bring your stuff?”

  “What kind of stuff?” I asked him.

  “You’re going to need some clothes and stuff,” he said.

  “You didn’t tell me where we were going, or for how long, or anything.”

  “Didn’t I?” He looked pensively at the table, knitting his brows. Then he brightened. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll take care of you. You got the car?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I borrowed it from a friend.”

  “Good. Drink your tea and we’ll go.”

  I was torn. Who was this man taking over my life, causing me to lie to my friend? Why wouldn’t he leave me alone? But where would I be if he did? I would do anything to make sure exactly that didn’t happen. Joey had a leather bag packed and ready. We stepped right down the stairs and climbed into the car.

  “This car okay for a few days?” asked Joey.

  Now I felt furious at his presumption. He’d only told me 12 hours before that we needed a car at all, and now that I’d miraculously found one, he wanted it for several days. I had to admit that yes, the car was available for several days. I hated him for the fact that it was true.

  “So let’s swing by your place,” he said, slapping my thigh. “Pick up your kit, and we’ll be off.”

  So it was that I retraced the streets back to my house. I left him in the car while I climbed up to my garret room. It didn’t take more than two or three minutes to throw some things in a bag. When I got back to the street he was nowhere to be found, and the car was locked.

  Joey came back around the corner after a few minutes, clutching some snacks: dried fruit, a couple of small plastic bottles of juice, a carton of chocolate milk, packets of nuts, and a bulging plastic bag of chocolate-covered everything. Without a word of explanation, he walked straight to the driver’s door and motioned me to climb in on the other side. Thoughts of insurance, the current status of his driver’s license, and whether or not Paul was still home, flashed through my mind. None of it seemed to make any difference because here I was sitting on the right side of the car, which was actually the wrong side of the car, and Joey was playing with the gears like an Italian sports car driver about to put a machine through its paces. I felt a sense of foreboding, but it was too late. The tires made a faint screech as Joey lunged the car into gear, and we were off.

  It’s not too many blocks from Paul’s house to the outskirts of the town, and before too long we were on our way to I knew not where. Joey had a strange knack of putting me at ease, even in the midst of his most outrageous behavior. As he laughed, joked, and commented on little tidbits of local history, his childlike excitement to be going on an adventure became infectious. I don’t think the cassette player in Paul’s car had worked for many years, but Joey switched on the radio. Here was the band Steppenwolf, encouraging us to get out on the highway, to start looking for adventure, in whatever might come our way. I didn’t want them putting any ideas in his head. I was wondering if I could retune the dial to Mozart or some Christian channel about family values, but Joey was obviously a ’60s fan and was singing along with eyes flashing.

  Out past Yarrowville the trouble began. We were on a small, two-lane road, very straight, lined by tall yew trees standing naked to the sky, like anorexic models. As the Eagles declared “I’m already gone,” Joey’s foot hit the floor. The speedometer rose steadily, 50, 55, 60, on and on it went.

  “We have to be careful,” I warned him. “My friend doesn’t have insurance.”

  “I’m always careful,” laughed Joey, and pushed the Honda to increasingly higher speeds. The naked trees were flying past us so fast, that they changed from black, white, black, white, black, white, to one continuous blur of gray.

  Then I heard the sound I had most been dreading. A police siren, following us from quite a distance behind. I still faintly hoped it might be chasing some other sinner. “Slow down, Joey,” I begged. “You’ve got to slow down.”

  “Yeehaw!” came his response, as the Honda lunged forward. I was definitely, irreversibly in the hands of a complete lunatic. It took a while for the police car to catch up with us—the feats that Joey was putting the Honda through were a challenge even to those equipped for pursuit. How could he be enjoying the whole thing so much? The window was cracked just a little on his side, just enough to blow his hair back onto the headrest behind him. His eyes were aflame with pure thrill. Maybe I should just open the car door and throw myself out onto the road, I thought. At least my final moment would be a statement of disaffiliation from this maniac. Perhaps the police would realize I’d been kidnapped. Rebecca and the kids might land some sort of claim. Before too long we heard the sound of another siren coming from the other direction.

  “That’s it,” chuckled Joey. “They won.”

  I couldn’t believe him. He was playing some sort of cops and robbers game with my best friend’s uninsured car. Joey reduced his speed and pulled over. We were hemmed in by the police in front and back, and after a couple of minutes another car appeared and pulled off on the other side of the road. The boys were definitely excited. This was a quiet, rural area. Probably the most action they’d seen in many years.

  “Get out of the car,” cried one of them, obviously the most senior. “Get out of the car and put your hands on the roof.” He was shouting, desperate to seem in control. The others all had their hands quivering near their waists, like children who’ve seen too many cowboy films.

  “Get out of the car,” he shouted. Joey stepped out of the car and obligingly offered up his wrists. “Put your hands on top of the car,” repeated the older policeman. One of them had drawn a gun. Joey shrugged, grinned, and joined me, resting his hands on the icy metal next to mine. The same older policeman was reading us an official statement that sounded very familiar—about the right to remain silent, attorneys, and so on. All I was interested in was how quickly I would have the right to die. They frisked us roughly from head to toe, in a whirlwind of nervous excitement. We were both handcuffed and pushed into the back of the police car that had been parked across the street.

  Finally, Joey got his wish.

  Poor Paul. I couldn’t believe I’d done this to him. Joey had left the keys of the Honda in the ignition, and one of the remaining policemen was now busy searching the car. I was praying Paul was not still in the habit of leaving foil-wrapped little illegalities around. We were driven a few miles back down the avenue of trees to a small town: “Welcome to Yarrowville: population 1,283” the sign read. They took us to the police station, which was really no more than three rooms in a trailer. Still handcuffed, we were motioned to wait in a couple of vacant chairs.

  The older policeman appeared, the one who’d been shouting orders at us. He introduced himself as Sergeant Booker. He was a big, burly man with large, friendly hands, and a thick mustache trimmed very squarely above his lip; the kind of policeman every small town can be proud of, the kind who allows little old ladies to fall asleep in the peaceful knowledge of absolute protection. Booker was trying to look nonchalant, as if this kind of thing happened every day, but nothing could hide the excitement bubbling underneath. This was his big moment. Finally, his teenage dreams of excitement, of car chases, of shootouts were coming to fruition.

  “Name,” he asked me first, assuming from my younger age that I must be the instigator of whatever crime was to be discovered.

  “Thomson, Matt Thomson. No P. T-H-O-M-S-O-N.”

  “Address?”

  The question was salt into my wounds. I gave him the address of Paul’s apartment building, fully aware that it was not the address on my driver’s license. But I was past hope and past care now. Clearly, with Joey’s help the demons had me and I was destined to spend the rest of my life in a cold, dark dungeon.

  “That your car … sir?” His pause was just long enough to make the sir sarcastic.

  “Uh, no, it’s my friend’s car.”

  “Registra
tion?”

  “Must be in the glove box,” I said. One of Booker’s younger acolytes appeared with great pride with the documents.

  “And who, might I ask, is Paul Moula?”

  “He’s a friend of mine.”

  “Do you have his permission to drive his car … sir?”

  “Yes, I do,” I explained wearily. I knew what would come next. They would phone Paul, and that would be the last straw. I would be truly and completely homeless. I looked around to see if there was any heavy object I could use to bludgeon Joey to death before they put me in jail, but nothing suitable seemed handy.

  “Do you have any proof of insurance?”

  I faltered. “Um, no,” I said. “Don’t have proof of insurance.” I left it at that. There seemed no point in tightening the noose that was already firmly around my neck.

  Booker asked me a series of other degrading questions. Had I ever been arrested before? Had I ever been involved in prostitution? My humiliation grew stronger. Finally it was Joey’s turn. He answered each question with the relish and gusto of a claimant for the Publisher’s Clearing House prize.

  “Name?”

  “Murphy, Joey Murphy,” he announced with pride.

  “Address?”

  To my surprise, Joey didn’t give the address on West Broad Street. I remembered then that it was actually Alan and June’s place. He gave the name of a farm. At that moment a younger cop whispered something in Booker’s ear.

  “I understand you were driving the car when the officer began to pursue you?”

  “That’s right, sir,” beamed Joey, with the self-assurance of a hero. “I was driving the car when the officer chased us.”

  “And I understand that you increased your speed rather than slowing down.”

  “Yessir, that’s what I did,” grinned Joey.

  “And what exactly was your purpose in doing that, may I ask?”

  Joey didn’t remove his eyes for a moment from Booker’s face. He just went on grinning with complete delight at the situation.

  “Seemed like it would be more fun that way,” he confessed.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “It seemed like everyone would have a more exciting day if we had a little fun,” Joey went on, with the innocence of a six-year-old.

  Our pursuer stepped into the room now. He was in his early 20s, eager to please tattooed over every square inch of his body.

  Joey looked straight at him, and challenged him sternly, “Did you have fun, boy?”

  The young policeman was obviously startled by the question and didn’t have a chance to reply before Joey continued. “Now remember, you’re under oath.”

  That was just too much for Booker. “Be quiet!” he snapped. “I’ll ask the questions here. Now, have you ever been arrested before?”

  “No,” said Joey, with the delight of a child asked if he’d ever been to Disneyland. “This is my very, very first time.” He was in rapture now. “Thank you,” he added.

  Booker had no idea what to make of the whole thing. For that matter, neither did I. I was seething with anger, self-hatred, self-destruction, and thoughts of homicide. Booker disappeared into the other room to make a phone call, but the walls were so thin he needn’t have bothered. The move of location offered him no privacy.

  “Yes, sir, Sergeant Booker here. We’ve just apprehended two Caucasian males driving on Route 53. We’re holding them here on driving at unsafe speed and resisting arrest.” There was a pause while a voice on the other end must have asked some questions. “Two, sir. Youngest is a Matt Thomson, aged thirty-four, sir. No P, sir.” Another pause. “Er no, not a urine test, sir. The letter P, sir. It does not appear in his name. No, sir, no previous record.” There was another pause. “One Murphy. Yes, sir, Joseph Murphy. That’s right, sir, seventy-seven, sir. An address in Idlewild, sir. Yes. Oasis Farm. In Idlewild. I beg your pardon, sir? Could you say that again, sir?”

  Booker reappeared, visibly perturbed. “Um, I’ve been instructed to ask the two of you to wait for the time being. Would you care for any refreshments?” He said refreshments like an older member of the fundamentalist Christian right might say blow job. “The chief of police will be here in a few minutes,” he added.

  Booker then stepped forward and unfastened my handcuffs, but when he tried to do the same for Joey, he was refused. “I’ll hang on to these for now, thanks,” said Joey, only adding to Booker’s confusion. We were served Lipton’s tea and Oreo cookies, and after more than half an hour we heard another car arriving in the driveway. Heavy footsteps approached on the gravel, and in walked a round, jovial, bald-headed man. He must have been somewhere in his 50s. He had the ruddy cheeks that one gets from good, clean country living, and a tangible patience and stillness to him. He looked virtually impossible to make angry.

  He looked around with an authoritative air. “All right, Booker, you can send your men back to their duties.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir?” Booker sounded deflated.

  “I can handle this now.”

  Booker reluctantly dismissed his cadre, then defiantly returned to the corner with arms crossed over his chest. He was not to be cheated of what was to follow. The chief of police looked over at him. He let out a breath, and motioned to Booker to sit down. I wondered if this was to be a “good cop, bad cop” interrogation, like I’d seen on TV. The chief pulled up a chair right in front of Joey, and sat down, making himself comfortable.

  “What’s going on, Joey?” he asked in a quiet voice. “Did they give you tea or coffee?”

  “What?” I blurted. “You mean you know him?”

  “Oh yes,” continued the chief in his soft monotone. He extended his hand to me. “My name is Findley. Chief Inspector Findley.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or hit someone first. “What the hell is going on here?” I tried not to shout.

  “We had a little fun, and now it’s over,” replied Joey. His voice made no bones about the fact that I was overreacting.

  “Joey, Joey,” laughed the chief. “A little fun is one thing. But this is going a bit far. You gave the whole local police force more excitement than they’ve seen in years.”

  “I know!” beamed Joey with pride. Booker was leaning forward in his chair, looking intent, like a child trying to see how a magic trick is done. He looked from Joey to Findley to me with a knitted brow.

  “I’m sorry,” I interjected. “But what is going on? That was my friend’s car, and … ” I felt like crying.

  “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to you.” Findley looked sternly at Booker, who nodded obediently.

  “What is going on here?” I could really find nothing else to say.

  “My father was an officer on the U.S.S. Enterprise during the Second World War,” Findley started.

  Joey shifted in his chair. “I don’t think this is very relevant, is it?”

  “Well, Joey, I think your young friend here has a right to know why I’m going to let you go.” Findley went on. “When the torpedo hit, it brought the whole officer’s bridge down with it. Everyone was running around getting into lifeboats, but my father was trapped underneath crumpled metal, his leg pinned under part of the I-beam that had been supporting the bridge. His leg was badly broken. The ship was almost completely evacuated as he moaned for someone to come and help him. Only one boy, already in one of the lifeboats, heard his call.”

  Joey looked awkward.?“ And that young man jumped out of the lifeboat and ran alone back to the sound of my father’s moaning. That boy, red-haired with freckles, hardly old enough to shave, managed to use another beam as a lever to lift the weight off my father’s leg, and then carried him to the edge of the ship. Of course, my father couldn’t swim, let alone walk, but that brave young man jumped into the water with my father, and, holding onto him with one arm, swam through the icy waters to the lifeboat. They got picked up by another ship a few hours later.

  “After the war, my father tried every way he could to
find the man who’d rescued him. Years later, as fate would have it, my father was working an office job for the FBI. He recognized Joey’s name and face on a list of anti-war activists during Vietnam. When Joey was able to return to this country, my father was able to thank him in person. Forty years later.”

  “Forty-two,” interrupted Joey.

  “My father died almost ten years ago,” Findley went on. “The last thing he said, and I was there in the room, you know, he said, ‘I owe my life to Joey Murphy.’”

  This was my first experience of Joey rendered speechless. He stared at the floor, not knowing what to say.

  “What else could one do?” said Joey finally. “No one was going to help him. He would have gone down with the boat. I didn’t want any fuss. Never liked fuss, you know.”

  The room had become very quiet. Booker was teary-eyed. With a nod from the chief, he stepped forward and unlocked Joey’s handcuffs.

  “All charges are to be dropped,” said Findley. “Escort these gentlemen back to their car.” He turned to Joey. “You’ll be at the farm for Christmas?” Joey nodded. “I’ll come on Sunday with Angela. Now you still haven’t told me, what were you playing at, Joey? If I’d been off duty or out of town, you could have spent the whole of Christmas behind bars.”

  Joey smiled. “You know me by now. I leap before I look. Thing is I’d never been arrested see, besides, I had to test Matt here to see what he’s made of before his training starts.”