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Authors: Charles Willeford
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run, Pop. What could Collins prove? It was only his word against mine. We didn't wait long anyway, because people stopped right away to see if we were hurt. Within three minutes there was a state trooper there to investigate the accident. It was just inside the city limits, so he called for a Riviera cop. Meanwhile, Collins was filling the trooper in about me pulling a pistol on him."
"What did you say?"
"I told the trooper and the cop both that Collins was either drunk or crazy. They made him walk a straight line and then take a breath test. And he wasn't drunk. They didn't think he was crazy either, so after he said he'd prefer charges, they locked me up. Hell, he's a homeowner here, and I don't have any fixed address. Not at the moment anyway, except for this cell."
"Did they ever find your gun?"
"Not yet, and they won't try very hard, not in all that stinking muck out there. But even if they find a gun they can't prove it's mine. There must be hundreds of guns thrown off bridges here in Florida."
Frowning, Stanley took the plate and cup from Troy and put them down by the door. "You're in a lot of trouble, son. That's an awful thing to do, pulling a gun on a man that way. What ever made you do it?"
"I explained that to you. I'm a criminal psychopath, so I'm not responsible for the things I do."
"Does that mean you're crazy? You don't look crazy, Troy--I mean John."
"Robert."
"Robert. Of course, pulling that pistol on that man--"
"Let me finish, Pop. I don't have time to go into all of the ramifications of my personality, it's too complex. I've been tested again and again, and it always comes out the same. Psychopath. And because I'm a criminal, I'm also a criminal psychopath. You follow me?"
"Yeah, I think so. But if you aren't crazy, what are you?"
"It's what I told you already. I know the difference between good and bad, but it makes no difference to me. If I see the right thing to do and want to do it, I do it, and if I see the wrong thing and want to do it, I do that, too."
"You mean you can't help yourself then?"
"Certainly I can. I'll put it another way. I can help myself, but I don't give a damn."
"And because you don't give a damn, you're a criminal psychopath, is that it?"
"You've got it."
"But why"--Stanley made a sweeping movement with his arm--"don't you give a damn?"
"Because I'm a criminal psychopath. Maybe, when they give you some tests, you might could be one, too."
"No, I'm a responsible person, Robert. I worked hard all my life, took good care of my wife and son, and even put my boy through junior college. I own a home up in Detroit, and I own my own home here in Florida. I never done nothing wrong in my life, except for--well, I won't go into some little things, maybe."
"Even after they test you, Pop, you still won't know how they came out. They never tell you. I had to give a man at Folsom two cartons of Chesterfields to get a Xerox of my medical records. That's how I know. Otherwise I wouldn't know that I was a criminal psychopath, and I would think I was doing strange things instead of acting naturally. I read a lot, you see, even when I'm not in jail."
Stanley pointed to the dish and cup on the floor. "Do I have to wash this plate and cup?"
"Hell, no, just leave it for the trusty. Until a man's been adjudicated and found guilty, he don't have to do anything in jail. They'll try to get you to do things, but you can tell them to go fuck themselves because you're innocent until you're proven guilty. You and me are both innocent, so we don't have to do a damned thing. Sit down over there, Pop, I want to talk to you."
"I don't want to hear no more about those tests."
Stanley sat beside Troy, and Troy put an arm around the old man's shoulders. "Never mind the tests. I want you to do me a little favor, Pop. If you don't want to help me, say so, and I won't ask."
"Sure, I don't mind
"What did you say?"
"I told the trooper and the cop both that Collins was either drunk or crazy. They made him walk a straight line and then take a breath test. And he wasn't drunk. They didn't think he was crazy either, so after he said he'd prefer charges, they locked me up. Hell, he's a homeowner here, and I don't have any fixed address. Not at the moment anyway, except for this cell."
"Did they ever find your gun?"
"Not yet, and they won't try very hard, not in all that stinking muck out there. But even if they find a gun they can't prove it's mine. There must be hundreds of guns thrown off bridges here in Florida."
Frowning, Stanley took the plate and cup from Troy and put them down by the door. "You're in a lot of trouble, son. That's an awful thing to do, pulling a gun on a man that way. What ever made you do it?"
"I explained that to you. I'm a criminal psychopath, so I'm not responsible for the things I do."
"Does that mean you're crazy? You don't look crazy, Troy--I mean John."
"Robert."
"Robert. Of course, pulling that pistol on that man--"
"Let me finish, Pop. I don't have time to go into all of the ramifications of my personality, it's too complex. I've been tested again and again, and it always comes out the same. Psychopath. And because I'm a criminal, I'm also a criminal psychopath. You follow me?"
"Yeah, I think so. But if you aren't crazy, what are you?"
"It's what I told you already. I know the difference between good and bad, but it makes no difference to me. If I see the right thing to do and want to do it, I do it, and if I see the wrong thing and want to do it, I do that, too."
"You mean you can't help yourself then?"
"Certainly I can. I'll put it another way. I can help myself, but I don't give a damn."
"And because you don't give a damn, you're a criminal psychopath, is that it?"
"You've got it."
"But why"--Stanley made a sweeping movement with his arm--"don't you give a damn?"
"Because I'm a criminal psychopath. Maybe, when they give you some tests, you might could be one, too."
"No, I'm a responsible person, Robert. I worked hard all my life, took good care of my wife and son, and even put my boy through junior college. I own a home up in Detroit, and I own my own home here in Florida. I never done nothing wrong in my life, except for--well, I won't go into some little things, maybe."
"Even after they test you, Pop, you still won't know how they came out. They never tell you. I had to give a man at Folsom two cartons of Chesterfields to get a Xerox of my medical records. That's how I know. Otherwise I wouldn't know that I was a criminal psychopath, and I would think I was doing strange things instead of acting naturally. I read a lot, you see, even when I'm not in jail."
Stanley pointed to the dish and cup on the floor. "Do I have to wash this plate and cup?"
"Hell, no, just leave it for the trusty. Until a man's been adjudicated and found guilty, he don't have to do anything in jail. They'll try to get you to do things, but you can tell them to go fuck themselves because you're innocent until you're proven guilty. You and me are both innocent, so we don't have to do a damned thing. Sit down over there, Pop, I want to talk to you."
"I don't want to hear no more about those tests."
Stanley sat beside Troy, and Troy put an arm around the old man's shoulders. "Never mind the tests. I want you to do me a little favor, Pop. If you don't want to help me, say so, and I won't ask."
"Sure, I don't mind
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