Ratted Out to the Cops By a Four-Year-Old

My son was just four. We lived in a great building across from the Philadelphia Art Museum. Rocky’s Philadelphia Art Museum.

         Our Bold, Independent Rocky Balboa.

         My Bold, Independent Graham.

     Now, Graham, like many Bed-time Conscientious Objectors, often resisted hopping up into his sturdy wooden bunk bed at The Appointed Time, especially when Tamar worked late. Nonetheless, bed-time is bed-time, mom or no.

     NO was the word, alright.

     That night Tamar was out very late. She was then a social worker and as you likely know, they can work pretty incredible hours. And that night Graham wasn’t going to bed without a verbal tussle but I held firm. So, after a time, up he scrambled and from the top bunk he announced, “Daddy, I’m calling the police on you”,  by no means a unique threat among children resisting             Oppressive Parental Directives.

     I told him an additional exciting episode of

                            Graham-alek!  Magical Flying Prince of Ancient Ethiopia!

softly accompanied by Bob Marley’s rhythmic Exodus in the background. I’d been inventing those tales, a never-ending saga, for maybe two years. He loved them and so did I. Graham’s namesake, of course, was always the hero. 

     The double-episode may have gone to his head.

     Story done, I kissed his head, stroked his cheek, tucked him in, went to the living room to read and wait up for Tamar. Next thing I knew Graham, in green and blue cotton footsies, was standing in front of me, cordless white phone in hand. “Daddy,” he said solemnly, “I called the police on you.”

     “That’s nice, son. Back to bed.” And I carried him back to his room and repeated the goodnight ritual, sans a Graham-alek tale. I took the cordless from his hand, placed it in its living room cradle on a small glass table by Graham’s bedroom door. I returned to my book.

     The heavy pounding on the apartment door came before I’d completed a paragraph. Graham bounced from his room and hopped up into my arms as I greeted two enormous, uniformed Philadelphia Police Officers, a man and a woman.

                               Enormous.

     I was baffled. Graham was beside himself, awed, at once shaking with fear and giggling.

     “Sir, is everything alright?”

     “Yes, officer. Of course. Is there a problem?”

     “Sir, we received a 911 call and….” I reeled.

     The female officer looked down, from me to Graham and back to me again. She addressed my son. “Young man. Did you call the police? Tell the truth now, son.” She stared at the white cordless phone, somehow now dangling by its antenna in one of Graham’s small, tenacious, caught-red-handed fists.

     “I. I. I….”  And his tears burst forth. I must have looked as flummoxed as I felt as I held him close. Graham dropped the phone to the parquet floor, jumping in my arms at the sound. I rubbed his back.

     “Sir.” The policewoman addressed me, my confusion apparent. “When you punch a series of numbers at random, if 9-1-1 is part of the sequence no matter how many numbers are punched before or after, we’re called.” I explained to them what Graham had said when I’d told him it was time to get under the covers. They both did their best to maintain serious miens as the man then addressed my son. I could see their eyes twinkling.

     “Young man. This is very serious.” He spoke slowly and low. “Little boys must, and I mean must, listen to their daddies when they say it’s bed-time. Do you understand?

     Silence.

     “Young man. I am asking you if you understand. Do you? Understand?”

     Graham blurted “Yes!” He flew from my arms, ran to his room and bolted up the short ladder and onto the top bunk of his bed.

     The officers nodded, smiled, and left.

     I went to Graham’s room and rubbed his back and softly sang, Ex-o-dus! Movement of Ja People! over and over until my bold, independent, frightened little man was fully given over to Na-Na-Land. I kissed a small ear.

     Tamar came home half an hour later. I poured her a glass of wine and told her a really good story.