You have no items in your cart. Want to get some nice things?
Go shopping
After the police officer pulled me over, the first thing he said was, “Are you the satirist?” I said,
“I certainly am not. I don’t think I’ve ever even met a satirist.” In the darkness of night, the
officer unfolded a photograph from his pocket, studied it, then pinned a glare on me. He showed
me the picture. “You’re telling me you don’t know who this is?” He showed me the photograph.
It was my cousin, Marcus. We looked almost identical, though I was a bit heavier at the time, and
Marcus had hints of a scraggly beard. We hadn’t spoken or seen each other in years, ever since
he went off to art school and I took a job at the bank. I almost explained this to the officer, but
caught myself before spilling the beans. Instead I said, “That guy looks malnourished. Look at
me. We’re not the same. What do you want with a lowly satirist, anyway?” The officer said, “He
wrote an off-color play about a friend of the mayor.” “Really? Was it a comedy or a tragedy?” I
said. “I can’t disclose that,” the officer said. “What is Mar– the satirist, I mean, charged with?” I
said. The officer seemed distracted. He was fanning his flashlight in the backseat of my car.
Above us, a chopper with a search light sliced its way through the night sky. My palms started to
dampen, so I asked if I could continue on my way. The officer said, “One more thing. It’s my
daughter’s birthday tomorrow.” He pulled out a colorful greeting card which had a drawing of a
bright-eyed porcupine holding a red balloon. “You’d be doing me a big favor if you could write
something in this. Make it witty.”
About Caleb Bouchard
Caleb Bouchard lives in Atlanta, Georgia. His writing has recently appeared in The Atlanta Review, MORIA, Rejection Letters, Unbroken, and other journals. His translations of the French poet Jacques Prevel have appeared in AzonaL, Black Sun Lit, and Poet Lore. Find him on Instagram @calebbouchard.
