The Vermont Story
By DJ Hazard
My good buddy and colleague, Rick Jenkins, and I were playing a one-nighter in Vermont. The next morning, we went down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast before returning to Boston. The staff people at the front desk knew we were entertainers and even cheerfully asked us how the show went before seating us.
As we were eating, I looked out the window and noted that there were far too many Ford Crown Victorias in the parking lot. I then looked around the dining area and casually noticed that there were far too many large groups of large, serious-looking men occupying half of the twenty-odd tables around us. I mumbled to Rick that I’ve never seen so many cops in one place and that they must be having some kind of seminar at the hotel. He looked around, said I was nuts and we both proceeded to finish our breakfast.
I should have figured something was up when we got up to leave and sauntered back over to the front desk to say goodbye. The two or three staff people were visibly yet inexplicably nervous about something. They appeared to be trying to stand as far away from us while still within the small space of the check-in cubby hole.
I bent down to pet their dog, which was a permanent rustic fixture in this Currier and Ives motif, and the tension level spiked exponentially. I could have sworn that I heard small, high-pitched squeals of terror emanate from one of the people behind the desk.
“Wow, these people sure run hot and cold,” I thought and I backed off from the dog as Rick and I progressed to the parking lot.
Some twenty minutes later down the road, a nondescript Buick that had been behind us suddenly revealed flashing blue lights from within the grill and dashboard. I pulled over to let him get by and he pulled up right behind me. At least five other flashing unmarked cars appeared from behind and situated themselves in various angles to our car.
A loudspeaker announced, “Attention, driver and passenger. Do exactly as we say. Any action otherwise will be interpreted as an act of aggression.” Rick and I decided it was best to follow instructions. I was instructed to shut off the engine and throw the keys out the window. An elaborate impromptu game of Twister ensued which was designed to keep us off balance while we exited our vehicle and laid face down on the black top. Cuffed and covered with at least ten drawn pistols, we were whisked away to the local police station.
Let’s rewind to the beginning and start from the point of view of the guys with the guns.
A small army of U.S. Marshals had just finished a twelve-hour shift looking for two of America’s ten most wanted fugitives. They were reported to be in Vermont, traveling together and, apparently, looking a lot like Rick and me. The posse had just pulled into the hotel for breakfast when their quarry suddenly strolled into the same diner and began ordering.
They quietly informed the hotel staff not to panic and to act naturally. One of the Marshals tried to figure out which car was ours and went out to the parking to deflate our tires, but we had just about finished up before he could pull this off.
So, they got back into their cars and followed us, radioing ahead to stop traffic from the other direction. When then roadblock was confirmed, they felt it was time to make their move.
For the next six hours I was chained to a chair. Rick had been shackled up in a different room so that we couldn’t collaborate our stories. But we stuck to our guns (no pun intended). The Feds were nonplused with our insistence that we were stand-up comics, but they seemed confident that all would be revealed when our fingerprints matched the criminal database in Washington. At one point they asked if they could search my car and luggage. I said yes. Just as they were heading out the door, I remembered that I had stolen a towel from the hotel room. I told them that I would never do it again.
As the hours ticked by, my mind started to weigh to the intellectual pursuits regarding our situation. I asked them what, at this point, was my job description. Was I a suspect? They politely denied that I was anything of the sort, and that they were just doing their job. I thought about it for a while and said, “Alleged perp! That’s what I am right now, ain’t I?”
The local cops were changing shifts and the new guys were all finding reasons to come into the room and sneak a peek at me.
“Hi,” I greeted each curious constable, “Yep, alleged perp. How’s it going?”
The Feds were starting to have second thoughts about their big catch, but they were still waiting for the fingerprint check to get faxed back from the FBI. Somebody said that the fax connection was down and that it was going to take a while.
At one point, still double-cuffed to my chair, I looked up at the clock on the wall and started cracking up with laughter. My hosts put down their paperwork and others came in from other parts of the building to see what was up. There was a gleam in their eyes as if their patience was rewarded and that I was, indeed, a murderous psychopath.
“Are you okay, sir?” they asked.
I told them that I just realized that in five minutes I was going to be late for my appointment with my chiropractor for stress reduction.
“Are you on any medication, sir?” another Fed asked.
“No, but I’m seriously going to consider it after today.”
Fingerprints or no fingerprints, the Marshals were starting to believe that they made a mistake. They said they were pretty sure that they were going to let us go within the half-hour. To their surprised, I refused.
“Hey, I’m not going out there until you guys are a hundred percent sure about us. There’s another gang of cops working another twelve-hour shift out there and they haven’t had the privilege of getting to know us like you guys have,” I said.
I was half having fun with this reversal of leverage and half-serious. I really didn’t want a million guns pointed at me twice in one day. Not unless it was a dozen Nicaraguan chicas in cut-off camouflage, their sweat-glistened and ample bosoms heaving in the jungle humidity, holding me captive for breeding stock.
Another hour came and went. Even I was getting bored. They had been letting Rick and I hang out together for some time (they probably needed the extra space) and I think our hosts were getting tired with our mutually fueled banter.
They offered to let us go again and, this time, I thought it was a good idea. Rick and I couldn’t wait to get back home and tell everybody where we’d been. We were now looking at the clock and considering in which Boston club we were going to hold court.
There was still the matter of the other Task Force out there and it was still, though now not as prevalent, on my mind. I asked the Feds if they could write us a note saying that we weren’t ‘The Guys’ just in case we got stopped again. They said they don’t do things like that.
We decided to take our chances. After all, the fax with the fingerprint report still hadn’t come back and I wasn’t going to wait around long enough to be pegged as Kaiser Soze. We high-tailed it back to my place, parked the car, hopped in a cab and headed off for a night of story telling and much tequila.
I’ve been stopped by cops before and I probably will be again. These encounters make up a good chunk of my material, but I do have to admit that this adventure took the cake.
Rick, on the other hand, had lived a relatively more sheltered life and the incident was quite the rite of passage for him. For several weeks afterwards, he was almost intolerable with his ‘looked death in the face’ posturing. I did what any good buddy would have done.
I let him have the bit.
DJ Hazard is a comedian. Visit DJHazard.com.