Headed for three ‘hots’, a cot, and a prolonged period in the pokey

Prolonged Period In The Pokey

I wish Dad had caught me swiping his pistol; he didn’t. It was a beauty, a Military High-Standard .22 caliber. All I wanted to do was “borrow” it so that I could enjoy slaughtering rats with a bunch of other gun-loving students at the garbage dump located several miles from the small town that was home to the university we attended.

We’d meet late in the day, about the time the rats began their nightly forays among the putrefying flotsam, and hide behind a clump of bushes within pistol range of our victims, the population of which could only be described as swarming hordes.

We took turns shooting and kept score, determined by such things as how many misses we registered, how many clean kills we scored, and how many rats we wounded that were able to drag away, only to be feasted upon later by their fellow garbage gastronomes.

It was great fun while it lasted, which was almost the whole semester, but finally someone reported us.

As I pulled into the dormitory one Friday night, a waiting policeman searched the car and found the pistol. Instead of showering, slipping into fresh duds and picking up my girlfriend at the appointed time, I was handcuffed and carted off to jail.

The next morning, I had a visitor — the Dean of Men!

“I’ve arranged your release, but you’ll stand trial for unauthorized possession of a firearm. Furthermore, I called your father, and he is absolutely furious.”

Mama’s phone call didn’t help.

“Son,” she wailed, “Your father and I saved for years to pay for your education, and now the Dean informs us that you’ve repaid our efforts by killing rats instead of studying.”

In line with several hardened hoodlums, I entered the courtroom to stand before The Honorable Ruth Runyon, known as “Ruthless Ruth.”

Sitting between Dad and the Dean, I agonized while Ruthless meted out harsh sentences to my predecessors. Then the bailiff called my name.

“Young man,” Judge Runyon intoned in a stentorian voice that, I imagined, had been the death knell of many ne’er-do-wells now rotting in the state penitentiary, “you are a disgrace to your family, this city, and the university. How do you plead?”

In a barely audible voice I whispered, “Guilty.” 

The fine was bad enough — repaying Dad would require a summer of slaving in his cotton fields, but the judge saved the double whammy for last.

“The pistol you stole from your father has been permanently confiscated.”

Dad went livid. It had been one of his prized possessions since his World War II service.

Outside the courthouse, Dad said to the Dean, “Sir, if you choose to let my son remain at the university, that’s your business. I’ll say this, though. Had the judge chosen to return my pistol and had she sentenced this rat-killing thug to do time for a gun crime, you wouldn’t have to choose. He’d be headed for three ‘hots’, a cot, and a prolonged period in the pokey.”