Everything I know I learned from Richard Kimble

The Fugitive was Dr. Richard Kimble, an innocent victim of blind justice, falsely convicted for the murder of his wife, reprieved by fate when a train wreck freed him en route to the death house; freed him to hide in lonely desperation, to change his identity, to toil at many jobs; freed him to search for a one-armed man he saw leave the scene of the crime; freed him to run before the relentless pursuit of the police lieutenant obsessed with his capture.

I first met Richard Kimble in 1964. I was twelve years old and he was working as a handyman for my father. My dad owned several apartment buildings. Kimble would cut the grass, empty the trash, unclog the drains. He used to deliver babies until his wife, Helen, was killed. Now he ran errands for my dad and kept his head down.

Later, after he had to leave, I found out who he was and what he was accused of. From what I knew of him at the time, I didn't believed it. My mother was horrified that we had had a killer in our midst. My father thought he was a hard worker and a pretty good guy. I just remembered his eyes. They were kind and sort of bewildered looking. When we would talk, he would never look at me for long before his eyes would flick sideways at a creaking floorboard or some sound in the street. Then he would give me that little twitch of a smile, as if apologizing for the interruption.

Eventually we heard that Kimble found Fred Johnson, the one armed man, and almost fried anyway when Gerard shot Johnson after he confessed to Kimble. Fortunately, a witness to Helen's murder, who was being blackmailed by Johnson, finally came forward when the one armed man was killed; ending Richard Kimble's long nightmare.

I'm not sure why all of this has had such an impact on my life. I wasn't that old at the time and I only knew Kimble for about six weeks. Maybe it was because I lived in a small town and any brush with fame (or infamy) was notable and long remembered. Maybe it was because of my age. Maybe it was Kimble, himself.

He had a gentle patience when other men would have raged at life's injustice. He was willing to work honestly when he was already on the wrong side of the law. He was willing to put his fate in the hands of strangers even though another stranger had ruined his life. He believed in people.

Along the way he made a lot of friends. People who were willing to protect him after knowing him only a short time. People who believed in his innocence. People who saw something in those haunted and hunted eyes. People like me.

He changed our lives by being who he was. An everyman. A guy who needed a break and still took the time to help others. He never let his ordeal change who or what he was and he never gave up.

By the time I heard he had died of a heart attack on February 13, 1980, I was twenty-eight years old. I was working hard at a job I enjoyed and looked people in the eye when I talked with them. Sometimes I would see Kimble, or at least someone like him, looking back.

I've heard about a lot of people over the years who claimed to have had a close encounter with Richard Kimble. A number of them have written books about their experiences - cashing in. Few of them describe the man I knew so I'm not too sure of their veracity. A smaller number of them got it right. Most of those people mention his eyes.

I had a small problem during those six weeks; a kid's problem, really. It doesn't even matter what it was. But Richard Kimble took the time to notice a kid with a problem and he gave me a hand. In the end, when Gerard was coming in the front door and we were at the back door he didn't even have to ask. Our eyes met briefly before his flicked sideways towards the back yard and the tree line. He looked back and gave me that twitchy, apologetic smile and was gone.

A moment later, Gerard came running down the hall shouting questions at me. My eyes flicked sideways to the basement stairs and I said I hadn't seen him. Gerard hesitated, glancing out the back door, then turned, flung open the basement door and shouted, "Kimble!"

I watched him ease down the first few steps, wasting time, and a slight, twitchy smile flashed quickly across my lips.

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The Great Beard Rebellion

I grew my first beard out of rebellion. I was told by an authority figure that I could not have a beard. So I grew one.

Actually, one of the few genuine talents that I possess is the ability to grow hair. Recently, the amount of facial hair I've had has been directly proportional to the amount of gray I've had. So I went from a full beard in 1993 to a goatee. In 2oo7 I began wearing a droopy sided mustache. They used to be called Fu Manchu's. (Back when people watched black and white movies or actually read books.)

I discovered very early in life that I had this talent for growing facial hair. I wasn't one of those kids that shaved in the 5th grade, or anything. Although, because the school system did not practice social promotion in the early 60's, I was technically old enough to. But I do remember, in high school, having to shave before school every day and again that evening if I had a date.

I never grew a beard or mustache in senior high because our school system still had dress codes and grooming codes when I graduated in 1970. I did, however, have sideburns to the bottom of my earlobes. The longest the code would allow.

When I joined the Air Force after high school, I ended up stationed on a multi service base along the coastline of Turkey. This meant that I worked along side of Army guys, and Marines, and Navy guys. The Navy guys were allowed to have beards. Which I thought was really cool. Unfortunately, the Air Force rules prohibited beards and severely limited the size and shape of any mustaches.

So, the authority figure that was telling me that I could not grow a beard when all the rest of my friends had one, was the United States of America. More specifically, the U.S. Air Force.

When I realized that I would never be permitted to grow a beard I decided to go along with the program and I began shaving five times a day. After about three days of this I had the worst razor rash in the eastern hemisphere. When I went to the base doctor for some cream or ointment, I explained that it was a chronic condition. I left the doctor's office with a tube of ointment and a medical excuse - giving me permission to grow a beard.

I had that beard until I left the military. I shaved it off then mainly because nobody was telling me what to do about it anymore, so the need no longer existed.

I've kind of been like that my whole life.

I would always have just as much facial hair as my employers would tolerate. Don't get me wrong, I was always well groomed. But I did enjoy pushing the envelope.

At one point I had the same beard for decades. One day I decided to shave it off and my kids did not even recognize me. My younger son actually cried. He was 23 at the time.

I can say, however, that the theme of facial hair and rebellion have gone hand in hand throughout my life. I feel like I have established my authority over my own face and I have been kind of enjoying the clean-shaven look recently. I had actually forgotten that I had a cleft in my chin.

Last week, much to the surprise of many people, I began growing a full beard again. When asked about it, I've been giving a variety of reasons. I've said that I am preparing for a covert CIA mission where I have to replace a bearded foreign agent who was captured several weeks ago. I've told people that I had realized how much I looked like my photos in the Post Office and figured it was time to change my appearance again. (I call this one the Richard Kimble gambit.) And I've been reminiscing about my Air Force rebellion days, as well.

So why am I growing a beard? As it turns out, the petite red head thinks that beards are sexy... and who am I to argue with logic like that?

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