Snap!

A story by Stephen Hodge

A solid knock on the door. Not a feeble knock, this is a serious knock. This person has come to see me because of a position I hold or a common friend; sent for a reason. This will not be a social call.

Four men altogether. The two in front in gray 3-piece suits with white shirts, gold-rimmed sunglasses, no eyes visible. Clean cut, deadly serious looks on their faces. They are here on business. Two policemen stand behind the two serious men. The policemen are attentive, ready for action but uninterested in the content of the serious business.

Badges Flash. 2 men. A round, non-jovial man and a flat man. It’s o.k. to be round and jovial. This man needs to either lose weight or get happy, but not both. 2 names. I don’t catch either name, but they are serious names, the names of serious people.

“May we come in Mr. Hodge?”

No response verbally, just a nod. Their flashing badges have scared me. A longer showing of the badges would have no effect on me, but a badge flash is a serious thing.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions and perhaps take a serious look around.”

No response, just a nod. Best to speak as little as possible for fear of betraying my innocence.

I’m nervous as hell as the flat man takes a deep breath, ready to begin. I have done nothing wrong, but this has yet to occur to me.

“Do you know what a felony is Mr. Hodge?”

No response, just a nod. Short quick, oscillatory nodding motions. No need for it to be a lingering nod, just get the point across.

“Have you ever committed a felony, Mr. Hodge?”

Pause.

Second Pause.

Third Pause.

I quickly wonder whether or not I have over-paused.

NEW THOUGHT: Maybe I’m not in trouble at all and these are just Gallop pollsters with armed support to ensure honest answers.

Heartened, I respond. “Well, I put a penny on a railroad track once…flattened out a damn good bit. Still have it I guess…somewhere.”

“Not that kind of felony, Mr. Hodge”

“Ripped up an uncanceled postage stamp?”

“We are very serious here, Mr. Hodge”

Stone cold expressions. Like the work of a great sculptor of the Renaissance period.

I pause again to admire the stoic art sculpted in these stony faces.

The policemen fidget. They are fidgety people. Officers Fidgety and Fidgeted. I quickly pause to wonder if they have children.

My mind swerves back to the serious business at hand and it occurs to me that I have absolutely no earthly what it is that these men are serious about.

It occurs to me that it has yet to occur to me that I’ve done nothing wrong and therefore I have nothing to fear. It occurs to me that this should have occurred to me from the outset.

“I suppose I’ve read other people’s junk mail”, I meagerly venture, hoping for a break.

No response, just a nod, but not an overnod.

The flat man has the grave and serious look of a man balancing his checkbook. As he stares intently into his checkbook, the numbers slowly come to life, gathering around his pen, dancing and singing, as he looks on with no amazement at all. Soon, the number 1, grandfather of all numbers, stops dancing because in square dancing he has no partner but himself. 1 becomes serious, gazes up at the flat man, shakes his little squib at him and warns him that he’d better stope abusing the numbers, if he values them at all, but the flat man only looks back with disdain and disinterest and still no amazement. The numbers all stop dancing now and freeze on the little page until the flat man rearranges them into lesser values.

“What exactly is happening here?”, I boldly venture, making note of the fact that I’m boldly venturing.

No response, no nod. The pattern is broken.

My thoughts swirl trying desperately to understand what I might have done to upset serious men.

Maybe, in the innocent process of walking home from lunch, I walked in a certain pattern, while singing a certain tune, and saying “Hullo!” to just the right strangers, setting off a secret sign to an Iranian terrorist, telling him to GO AHEAD WITH PLAN A…….BLOW UP THE COWBOY LEADER!! Maybe poor ol’ Reagan opened up his medicine chest, reaching in to get his Preparation-H, and by doing so triggered an explosion, sending him zinging right out the bathroom window and into the pond in front, landing on and killing a pregnant goose. Nancy hears nothing from the bedroom.

“We are very serious here, Mr. Hodge.”

I quickly wonder if they really have eyes. I then suppress the urge to leap up and rip off their gold-rimmed sunglasses revealing faceless robots. I suppress the urge remembering the fidgety policemen, uninterested, but attentive.

“We are very serious here, Mr. Hodge”

I haven’t even said anything and they give me their response to a question dodge! They have again broken the pattern.

“Mr. Hodge, have you ever committed a felony?”

Not a fair question. I have answered it with a penny joke earlier. Again, the pattern is broken,

“Mr. Hodge, do we have your full and complete attention here?”

Something snaps. Not a bone, but a nerve. A nerve between my brain and my mouth has snapped and I listen helplessly as my mouth spews forth facts about Islamic terrorist groups, their leaders, future plans, secret headquarters, U.S. agents, techniques of death, locales of arms depots, lengths of terrorist leaders’ beards and even a nose joke about an Italian man. I listen helplessly as my mouth spews forth facts I do not know and have never known.

Something else snaps, and I’m gone…