The phone rang thirty seven times before Charles Whatley managed to scramble out of bed, down the steps, and into the kitchen to grab it off the wall.

“Uhhh ahem!” He cleared his throat. “Who is calling this late?”

“Charles Whatley, this is the Brantville Police Department, my name is officer Harris, I would like to ask you something.”

“At two in the morning!?” Charles barked in groggy frustration.

“Do you know anyone of the name of ‘Potato Eyes Johnson?”

“What!?”

“Potato Eyes Johnson. Do you know anyone of that name?” The officer asked.

“Potato what!? Is this a joke!?”

“This is no joke. Johnson told us he was with a one Charles Whatley all night long during a string of robberies on the east side.” The officer explained.

The name suddenly struck in Charles head. ‘Johnson’ he did know. Ole Johnson was an elderly man who kept an eye on all the houses on the street. Charles had come to know the man pretty well, and even played cards with him and a few other neighborhood friends. The man was retired and had nothing but time on his hands. He also liked to drink heavily and swear at the neighborhood children who rode their bicycles too close to his lawn. Somehow the idea of Johnson being a criminal mastermind almost made Charles burst out laughing, but he held his composure.

“Are you talking about Ole Johnson?” Charles asked. “I know an Ole Johnson. He lives down the street.”

“Sir.” The officer sighed. “We cannot ID the man, he claims to be called ‘Potato Eyes Johnson’. He claims he was at your house playing cards in your garage with a couple buddies.”

“He claimed that did he?” I asked, gaining a sinister grin. “Tell me something officer, what sort of trouble is Johnson facing?”

“Well its just a few misdemeanor thefts and a drunk in public charge. He’ll be looking at a fine and some community service.”

From the background of the officer’s end of the phone, Charles heard the familiar voice of Ole Johnson. “Come on man! Tell em! Tell em about the cards! Tell em how I always beat you!”

I rolled my eyes. “Officer?”

“Yeah?”

“We didn’t play cards tonight. Throw him in the drunk tank.”

“Ah. I see. Well thank you for your honesty.” The officer said.

The voice of Johnson: “What was that? Did he say what I told ya!? What did he say?”

And then the phone call ended. Charles Whatley rubbed sleep out of his eyes, turned on the kitchen sink faucet and stuck his head under drinking straight from it. He wiped his lips and stumbled back to bed. By tomorrow it would all have been a dream.