--When I was a youngling there were no 24-hour cable networks
dedicated to children’s programming.In fact, there were no cable networks whatsoever.To us, the word cable had no relation to TV; it meant “a
heavy, strong rope.”
And there were no Chuck E. Cheeses, or “soccer camps,” or even
soccer itself – at least as far as we knew.Beyond Little League and Scouts, there just wasn’t much in
the way of formal activities for kids; especially compared to today.
So, by default, we were in charge of creating our own fun.And since it was also before ‘round the clock TV news, and 20/20
and Nightline
and Greta
and the Missing White Girls(why isn’t that a band name by
now?), folks were a lot less paranoid then.And we were therefore granted ample freedom with which to
create said fun.
This led to an inordinate amount of Wiffle Ball, and games of
“flashlight” after dark, and that sort of thing.But it also opened the door to days of aimless wandering, on
either foot or bicycle, and impromptu “activities” which
sometimes got us into hot water with our parents and/or law
enforcement personnel.
I recall all manner of vandalism, some light shoplifting, bullying,
a little low-grade arson, the setting off of explosives inside the
bathroom of a department store, stashes of pornography hidden in
tree stumps, breaking and entering at the Jr. High School followed
by someone taking a dump in the drawer of a teacher’s file
cabinet, etc. etc.
Yes, it would require something along the lines of the Manhattan
Project to get it all on paper.But
today I’d like to focus on just one tiny aspect of it all:screwing with people in cars.That is, screwing with people while they’re
in a car, and we are not.Got
it?Excellent.
Bill or Rocky or Steve or Tim might be able to help with this one,
but I can remember three incidents right off the top of my head.I have no doubt I’m forgetting a few, but I’ll just go
with what I got…
--Until I turned sixteen and
started driving, I walked to school most days.And when I was in fifth and sixth grades it was a pretty good
distance, like seven or eight city blocks.Are kids even allowed
to walk to school now?I
simply don’t know.
In any case, most of this trek took place on a sidewalk running
alongside a busy and narrow street.Gigantic
1970s-era cars would whip past, just a couple of feet from our legs.And, of course, we were always screwing around and shoving
and tripping each other…It’s
a miracle nobody’s head got crushed ‘neath the wheels of a Buick
LeSabre, it really is.
And I can’t remember whose idea it was (ahem), but one of us got
the notion to attempt a simulation of such an event.What would happen, we wondered, if we faked being hit by one
of these fast-moving land barges?It
sure sounded like fun!
So we drew up the plans, and one day actually summoned enough
courage to go through with them.
It started with me; I was to take first action.And it seemed easy in the abstract, but when it got down to
it I realized I was a little nervous.What if something went wrong?What if I miscalculated and ended up getting sucked into the
wheel-well of a Monte Carlo?It could happen, y’know.
But I’d committed to doing it, and there was no backing out.So I chose an approaching car, separated myself from the
group slightly, and as the thing went past I gave it a swift kick to
the rear quarter-panel.
At almost the same time another person in our crew dropped to the
sidewalk, and everyone else started yelling, “OH MY GOD!!HIS LEGS!SWEET JESUS,
LOOK AT HIS LEGS!!”
The car screeched to a stop, and a terrified woman jumped out.I mean, she was shitting the proverbial brick, and was
obviously near-tears.She
came running toward us, and the horrified look on her face made us
lose our nerve.
It was just a joke, we assured her, nobody’s hurt!And as you might imagine, she didn’t really see the humor
in it.She gave us a
red-faced ration of shit, and demanded to know our names.
I told her I was Rogers
Hornsby, and she started, “Well, Roger…” And
I corrected her, “No, it's Rogers.”
And believe it or not, we never heard another word about it.I was certain I’d go home that night and my Mom would be
standing in the dining room with her hands on her hips, and a stern look on her face which spelled trouble.But there were no ramifications whatsoever.
In retrospect, it was certainly good luck that I’d chosen a car
driven by a housewife, and not some hung-over and full-of-rage
sheetmetal worker on his way to the job site.Ya know?
Yeah, we never tried that one again…
--A few years after that,
late at night and following a hellacious snowstorm, a bunch of us
built a rock-solid wall across the very same street.We used tightly-packed snow, and it took a
long time.But since
road conditions were so terrible, and most people were smart enough
to stay home, not a single motorist interrupted construction.
Once the thing was completed we hid behind a wall, and waited for
the fun to begin.And, as if
on cue, we almost immediately heard a car coming.
Laughing our asses off but trying to be quiet about it, we crouched
behind the barrier and watched while the action unfolded.It appeared to be one person in a big ol’ Dad-car.He approached the wall at a low speed, stopped in front of
it, and got out to investigate.
Bill recognized the guy; it was someone who’d gone to school with
his brother, which meant he was about nineteen years old.The dude checked out the wall for a couple of seconds, and
got back in the car.
Then we watched as he backed up, and floored it.He was going to try to break through!
But it didn’t work out for him; the wall was built with quality
workmanship.The car stopped
with a violent thud, and the front-end wrenched slightly upward.The door swung open angrily, and the guy jumped out.Then he yelled the immortal phrase:
“Whoever
did this shit is a motherfucker!!”
And I don’t think we stopped laughing until sometime the following
afternoon.
--A couple of years later,
after we’d discovered the miracle of beer, Bill and I were
semi-drunkenly exploring an old abandoned house one night.
Some crazy people used to live there, and had either died or been
committed to an asylum.And
since the place was sitting empty, but still fully furnished, it was
simply too much of a temptation for us.
One time the police caught us inside
the place; we weren’t doing anything, just having a look around…So they cut us a break, told us to get the hell out, and left
it at that.
But this night we were outside, snooping around for something we
could translate into fun.And
Bill found the TV cable sticking out of the side of the house.He started pulling on it, and yards and yards of the stuff
came out.
One thing led to another, and we finally had the cable strung across
a main street, and tied off around the trunk of a tree.The other end was still attached to the house, and it was
stretched pretty tight, roughly neck-high.
Again, we hid in the shadows and waited for something exciting to
happen.And every time a car
rode past the cable would skip off their windshield, then go over
the top.And we laughed and
laughed as the drivers invariably slammed on their brakes…
This went on for about a half hour, and each time we saw brake
lights we thought it was the height of comedy.(We’d had a few Miller High Lifes, remember.)
Then a man driving a Jeep with no top went tearing through, and screeched
to a halt.I don’t
know if the cable got caught on his windshield, or what.But we were about to crap ourselves with laughter.
Oh, we were having ourselves a great time, until we heard the
sirens.Yeah, that’s when
we decided we’d better move along.
My Dad was a fireman, and was on duty that night.I later learned they’d received several calls about
possible “power lines” being down, and draped across West Virginia Avenue.
And when the two fire trucks(!) and a couple of police cars(!!) got
there, and they saw that it was actually a TV cable tied to a
tree… my Dad somehow realized I was involved.I still don’t understand it, but he immediately knew.
When he got back to the station he called my Mom and asked where I
was.“Out with Bill
somewhere,” she said.And
he left word for me to call the moment I got home.
It was the damnedest thing…He
said the whole episode had
my name written all over it.What
does that even mean??
He wasn’t mad, but he wasn’t exactly happy either.“What if someone on a motorcycle had come through there?”
he wanted to know.And all I
could say was, “Oh yeah, that never occurred to me,” which was
true.
I’m still a little freaked out about it.Not about the possible decapitation of a motorcyclist, but
about my Dad looking at a TV cable tied to a tree, all the way
across town from where we lived, and thinking, “Where’s
Jeff?!”
That shit just ain’t right.
So, I’ll leave you now with an obvious Question of the Day…What are your own personal Screwing With People in Cars
stories?Use the comments
link below to fill us in on that one.
And also, if you wouldn’t mind taking a couple of seconds to
answer this poll question, I’d be
much obliged.It feels like
we have readers of all ages here.Can
you help me verify it?I’d
really appreciate it.
