WILLIAM WALSH

THE MARGARET ATWOODS

        Margaret Atwood had been arrested before. But he’d never been arrested by a police officer named Margaret Atwood. Desk Sergeant stopped by Margaret’s cube. “Atwood,” he said. “You fucked up your arrest report, Margaret. You typed your name on the perp’s line.”

       “No, Sarge,” Margaret said. “Perp’s name’s the same as mine. Margaret Atwood.” Margaret Atwood had always wanted to be a cop, ever since he was a little boy. He even liked doing the paperwork.

-o-

        The crime Margaret Atwood allegedly committed is not important. If he wasn’t completely innocent, he was, at least, unindictable. What he allegedly did in an Italian restaurant in Providence, Rhode Island is irrelevant, not worth mentioning.

        Margaret Atwood, the arresting officer, was six years old in 1986 when Police Academy 3 came out. He wanted to go see it, but his parents wouldn’t take him because it was rated PG. Also, his mother got nauseous in movie theatres. “All I smell is dirty hair,” she’d say.

        Margaret’s father promised to buy Police Academy 3 for the boy as soon as it came out on video. Margaret’s father—also named Margaret Atwood—had just graduated from the Rhode Island Police Academy, third in his class, and he had just begun a promising career in law enforcement with the Providence Police Department. But his career was cut short when two fellow police officers discovered Margaret marching in a gay pride parade. He was disguised as a mime, but he was still recognizable in his big black cop shoes. His colleagues beat the hell out of Margaret along the parade route. Margaret took his licks like a mime: silent, miming his reactions to the real punches. When they were done, he was a mime with a black eye and split lip?

        So Margaret Atwood’s father began working as a security guard. The police force didn’t want him. He already wasn’t Italian, couldn’t grow a moustache, and had a girl’s name. Now he was gay.

       Margaret Atwood got into lots of fistfights as a young man. He wanted to like people, but people were not nice to him. One hundred percent of Margaret Atwood’s fights were about his name. Margaret was his mother’s name, and when she died giving birth to her one and only son, Margaret’s father decided to name his one and only son after his dead wife. At the time, in profound grief, he could not be talked out of it.

      Margaret discovered that he could win nearly every fight if he were to throw the first punch. One punch is all it takes with most guys, Margaret understood, especially if the other guy isn’t expecting to be punched. The ones who needed two or three punches to be defeated by Margaret Atwood—he didn’t win those fights. Margaret threw quick over-handed punches—jabs really—aimed right at the nose and top teeth. If he wasn’t in position to throw an over-hand punch, he threw a roundhouse right to the temple or eye socket.

       There had been some confusion after Margaret was cuffed. When asked to state his name, Margaret always paused, readying himself for a reaction, readying himself to punch. He looked down at his feet and said, “Margaret Atwood.”

       Margaret Atwood slapped the perp hard across the back of his head. He figured the perp had read the nametag above his badge. “Comedian.”

   Neither man was very happy about his name. But they were both learning to live with it.