The Fugitive--from Epistolary Memoir

[Lightning Rod]

BG,

The only thing I knew about being a fugitive was from the television series in the sixties starring David Jansen. I always thought the premise of the drama was a bit contrived, mild mannered doctor's wife is killed by an amputee but doc gets accused of the murder and spends the next seven seasons chasing the one-armed man while he runs from the cops. Pretty far-fetched. But also compelling. Who hasn't felt in life or in dreams that they were being chased, relentlessly pursued by monsters or thugs of some evil system or old lovers or by their own fears and insecurities? It's a universal theme, paranoia. Everyone understands it because we have all experienced it or witnessed it. The plot is a common one. From Poe's classic of paranoia The Tell Tale Heart to every Robert Ludlum novel to ancient heroic myths, the story is the same. The protagonist is thrust by Fate into an absurd and impossible situation and must elude his pursuers, real or imagined. At the same time he himself is pursuing a goal of his own while also trying to maintain his personal integrity and his commitment to the Hipocratic Oath . There are only three basic dramatic or literary plots. Man against man. Man against god (or 'the system' or nature) and Man against himself. The Fugitive had them all and used them well as it played upon our primitive fear and flight mechanisms. It made for effective theater. I enjoyed watching it, but I never imagined that my life would come to resemble a black-and-white television drama.

As I write this, I have been a fugitive for eleven years. Today on my morning walk I passed a cop who was standing outside his patrol car. We exchanged cordial greetings, beautiful day, yes, it is etc. He didn't know that I was a wanted criminal. Ten years ago my heart would have been in my throat during any encounter with minions of the law but today I just tipped my hat and hardly felt a bump in my chest. Being a fugitive is not the thrill that it once was. In fact it's quite a bore. If I had to describe my life as a fugitive in one word, it would be 'inconvenient.' Not desperate or deprived or dangerous, but 'inconvenient.'

It's not like I'm on the FBI top ten list of most wanted criminals. I can't plead guilty to any murders or hijackings or terrorist acts. In fact it embarrasses me each time I have to admit the reason I'm running from the law. But here goes, put your hands over the ears of impressionable children. I have been a fugitive for the past decade because I didn't file a change of address in timely fashion. There it is. I've said it. I would much rather be able to tell you that I had pulled off a giant jewelry heist or had devised some devilishly complex swindle to steal the pensions of our children or some other crime worthy of the Metro pages, but I can't. They are after me because I didn't file a change of address with my parole officer. I'm guilty. I didn't do it. No, really. I didn't do it. I'm guilty. What I'm trying to tell you is that I'm guilty because I didn't do it. If you are confused all I can say is welcome to the land of administrative law.

Before you laugh at the severity of my infraction consider the aggravating and mitigating circumstances. I was on parole and thus required to apprise the parole office of my whereabouts. But as luck had it, I was without a permanent place to stay. I was between jobs and on the sofa circuit. There was no new address for me to report. This was around the time that Bush stole his first election. I hadn't heard from the parole office for about ten years since George Sr. was president and we were in Gulf War I. For ten years I had been a model citizen, one of their success stories. I was only required to send them a letter once a year. My intention was to note my change of address in my next yearly letter by which time I would hopefully have an address to report. Several weeks later when I called the parole office, I was informed that there was a warrant out for my arrest. I thought that surely a telephone call to my parole officer would be be sufficient to clear up this misunderstanding which amounted to little more than a clerical error. But I was wrong. My PO informed me that I would have to turn myself in, go to jail and wait four to six months until they got around to having a hearing on my case. On consideration I decided that I didn't have another half-year of my life to donate to the cause of their stupidity. If they wanted me to participate in this futile exercise, they were going to have to catch me fair and square, I wasn't going to volunteer. So, for the past eleven years I have been flying under the radar, living as a non-person with no driver's license.

If the FBI had a list of Ten Least Wanted criminals, I would be on it. My ignominy is only rivaled by my obscurity. I had become a fugitive at an unlucky time. Our country was about to enter the Terror Era. Luckily I was fair-skinned and blue eyed. There was no posse or bounty hunter out looking for me, I wasn't being actively pursued, but they would gladly take me if they stumbled across me. I didn't dare go near an airport. I couldn't get my driver's license renewed. And the one thing that I absolutely could not have happen was a cop saying to me, 'Can I see some ID?" To avoid this eventuality I quit driving and began doing my business during daylight hours. I was already constructing my own prison.

It's not as if I'm afraid of prison, at least not terrified of it like I was before I experienced it. It's not a faceless monster; I know what it is now. It's not some mini-hell of constant torment unless torment to you means that your physical body is being controlled and you can't come and go as you please. It's more an exercise in boredom than pain. I know it wouldn't kill me to go back to prison. But I will certainly go to some extremes to avoid another vacation there, even to the point of restricting my own freedom. It's classic tragic irony, locking myself up in order to avoid being locked up. By refusing to voluntarily relinquish a further six months of my life to bureaucratic voodoo I accepted my role as a fugitive with all its attendant limitations. No jet-setting, no jobs requiring a security clearance or even a background check, and if this book that you are reading ever becomes a best-seller, I'll be in trouble there too. You can see the problem this presents for a poet and writer who hopes to have his words appreciated by as many people as possible. I live the existential paradox of having to maintain a low profile and high visibility at the same time. Praise be, the internet! Besides revolutionizing the publishing universe, the WWW has provided me with a means of documenting and preserving my work even from whichever clandestine hidey-hole I happen to be hunkered in. It's the ideal tool for a fugitive poet. The net lets me publish my work as well as to maintain my personal network without which I could never survive underground. I can't name all of the loving friends who have aided and abetted my Hegira, you, mon G, being high among them.

Your Maui pics are lovely from the scenery to the cherubic face of your love. Maybe one day I won't be a fugitive and we can convene on one of those beaches with mai-tais and Maui Wowie and learn some songs from the dolphins.

Onward
Tortuga Toots
fugitive turtle

[Arcadia]

I didn't do it. If you are confused all I can say is welcome to the land of administrative law.

great epistolar writing!, and great to read you under/inside? the l-rod name again!

[Doreen Peri]

My PO informed me that I would have to turn myself in, go to jail and wait four to six months until they got around to having a hearing on my case.

I thought they told you it would be about 6 weeks.

[stilltrucking]

I wish you could afford a good shyster lawyer. Put the fix in for you.

Sometimes when I feel like an outlaw I don't buckle my seat belt. Then I think about you (no shit) and how you would probably laugh at me.

I spent four days in jail in Atoka Oklahoma for public intoxication. I had not had a drink in six months, what I had was a toothache...and a bad attitude. When you are as claustrophobic as I am it seems like four years. Mostly I was afraid of fire. Some crazy people in jail. I suppose that is a result of the revolution in mental health care during the sixties.

Pardon the ramble just wanted to say howdy. Still wishing I could write as well as you. Even half as well would be an improvement. I am thinking about taking a basic course in English syntax and grammar.

[Lightning Rod]

thanks Arcadia, it's a revealing form of writing, the epistle

no doreen, it was six months. (why am I not surprised that you missed that?)

Jack, some of these epistles will be to you, my friend.