When old man Kekic had little kids alone, he’d stick his head in the window and ask in a gruff voice and menacing face, “Who did it?”
We’d all squeeze to the far corner of the backseat.
“When I find out, I’m goin’ ta THROW ya in the lake!”
Then he’d pull out of the window and finish servicing the car. It was his way of teasing us little kids I suppose, but he carried the shtick a little too well. It wasn’t until we were older and used to take a back trail to the station for candy runs that we began to see him for the lovable old man he was.
Anyway, one of my best friend’s dad was on the police force. He was what we considered a cool cop. If you got stuck doing doughnuts with a car in a snowy parking lot before school, he didn’t ask how you got in the predicament, he’d help you get out.
When I was a summer camp counselor for little kids in town, I asked my friend’s dad to talk to them about summer safety. I’ll always remember him saying it was something he didn’t like to do but it had to be done. I didn’t understand at first. Then he explained that seeing the innocence of youth replaced with the realization of the bad things that could happen in life was a message he did not like delivering.
We loved most of the police officers, even those of us who saw them a little more than we liked in the course of our youth. But I’ll never forget the day I came to consciously respect those who had the job of serving and protecting. I was making pizzas across town and just finished my last batch. It was a particularly busy day and the delivery driver was humping it for hours. I told him I’d make the next run so he could eat. He smiled and said thanks.
On my drive back to the shop, I noticed a crowd gathering right in front of the police station. In small towns like ours you couldn’t resist seeing what all the fuss was about. So I pulled into a lot, walked up to the station and peered through the crowd. A car had hit a huge tree out front and a rather large man was lying in the grass. One of the younger officers was pumping the man’s chest and doing all he could to revive him. Some little kids were crying. Adults attempted to shield them from the scene. A stranger next to me whispered that he thought that the kids had also been in the accident.
Everyone watched in silence, pretty much, as the officer tried to revive the man. I felt for the officer. I pleaded silently for the man to come back to life but he was dead. The officer kept trying. This went on so long it was clear there wasn’t going to be a miracle. The officer, exhausted, wouldn’t stop. My heart broke.
On the way back to the pizza shop, my eyes welled up at the tragedy I just witnessed. I realized how often our police officers, firefighters and paramedics experienced horrific accidents. I understood that one of the reasons Avon Lake was such a beautiful community to raise a family was because of men and women like these, serving in harm’s way.
When I returned to the pizza shop, I did what most people would do and said to the girls inside, “You’re not going to believe this …”
One put her index finger to her mouth and the other whispered, “We know.”
I was confused.
They said that our delivery driver just got a phone call. The man who died was his father.
Jake
My college apartment was missing something. I decided it was a bird.
So, I went to the mall with my new girlfriend, Becky. In the entry to a small pet store was a huge bin with parakeets. Their wings were clipped, so they couldn’t fly. But they could run – from one side of the open bin to the other. We went one way and they went the other. It was funny to see a stampede of tiny colorful birds bee-bopping in a rush.
Then we noticed little ole Jake (a name we’d give him later). He was smaller than the rest of the birds. When they ran, he couldn’t keep up so he tripped and got trampled. When we moved to the other side, the birds ran him over again …and again. After torturing the poor thing so we could laugh at his misfortune, we did the humane thing and saved him.
Jake was like another roommate. With his cage door open, he was free to come and go as he pleased. His freedom grew along with his wings. Soon, he learned his name and about five different whistles. I didn’t whistle but my roommate did. Jake understood my verbal commands.
“Come here, Jake.”
He’d flutter across the room and land on my shoulder. He often perched on our shoulders or heads. It was fun to watch him plop around the couch while we watched TV or wander around the kitchen when we’d cook. And by cook I mean throw something in the microwave for 3 minutes. Sometimes we couldn’t tell if our food was done because Jake learned to imitate the microwave beep.
This bird was special. We could swear he had personality, even a sense of humor. He was the cat’s meow. Okay, bad reference.
After exams, I conked out on the couch. It was a deep sleep. It morphed into a nightmare. I couldn’t breathe. I was suffocating. Startled, I opened my eyes. That’s when the horror really began. On my chin was little Jake. His beak was deep up one of my nostrils mining for gold nuggets. I was horrified because he was really going to town, frantically wiggling around way inside there and then quickly shifting to the opposite nostril to do the same. As I regained consciousness, my reaction was delayed. For a brief moment, I’ll admit, it tickled so good. Then, I freaked out and swatted him. I damn near killed the little bugger.
When it came time for Christmas break, I had to pack my car with all my clothes so I could use Mom and Dad’s washer when I got home. This meant multiple trips to and from my car. It was very cold outside so I figured it would be best to move Jake last. I used the sliding glass doors because it was closest to the parking lot. Each time, I took note of Jake across the room on top of his cage. It was far enough to quickly slide the door open, bend down and put a basket or box on the patio, and close the door behind me.
On my third trip, I looked at Jake, opened the door, bent down and heard a brief flutter over my head.
I never saw him again.
Ask-A-Nurse
I had a reoccurring sharp pain in my chest. It made me afraid to breathe deep. I knew it was anxiety but my girlfriend, Becky, and her roommates had other ideas.
“You should call the number for Ask-A-Nurse,” suggested one.
This was a new telephone service offered by the hospital. You could call, describe your symptoms, and a nurse would tell you how to proceed.
The pressure built and I’m not talking about my chest. I reluctantly called the phone number.
“You need to go to the emergency room, now,” said the nurse over the phone.
I expected as much. Now my anxiety was heightened, so I let Becky take me to the hospital.
The emergency personnel put me in a private room and then proceeded to stick me all over and then hook me up to a machine. Becky stayed by my side holding my hand, eyes glued to the monitor that was recording my pulsating heart.
“Was that it? Did you feel it?” she asked as soon as the line spiked up briefly and went back to normal.
I did feel it but that didn’t make me feel any better so it spiked again.
“Did you—”
“STOP THAT!”
Time passed. I was uncomfortable. She was still glued to the monitor. While we were waiting, I had an idea to better entertain ourselves – by that I mean myself. Discreetly slipping an arm out to my side, over the far end of the bed, I shook it rapidly and immediately dropped it back to my side.
“Oh my God! Are you okay?” she yelled while literally jumping into mid-air.
When her feet hit the floor, I was laughing so damn hard I thought everything stuck to me was going to rip right off. In about three seconds, she went from alarm, to anger, to laughing as hard as I was.
The doctor came in with a nurse. They wanted urine. I was instructed to go to the bathroom and return to my room where they would catch up with me later.
I don’t know how much they needed but I filled that cup and then some.
Coming back to the room, I shut the door and started making
“Jaws music” as I held the cup out in front of me, slowly closing in on Becky. She backed away half-laughing and half-horrified. My attack went on, the threatening cup of urine as my weapon.
Finally, I had her trapped into a corner. She was on her butt, with all four limbs extended out to keep me away. I had the cup held high, taunting her. We were both laughing pretty loudly.
That’s when the doctor walked in.
Oh, and Becky – she would eventually marry me.
First Impressions
We were getting serious, so much so that it was time for my girlfriend, Becky, to bring me home to her parents. It wasn’t just any trip home. It was to go to her cousin’s wedding.
The morning of the wedding, Becky’s mother entered the kitchen. She is one of the most genuinely kind persons I had ever met. She passed quickly, dropping some stern words my way. It was like a hit and run and I didn’t get the license plate. Maybe it was the accent. I asked Becky what just happened.
“You left the seat up …and she fell in.”
So I was off to a good start.
We were in college and I was still a smoker. Becky despised it and forbade me to light up around her. At the wedding reception the craving became too much. I slipped into the men’s room and lit up over the sink. I dragged that stick fast and hard. I felt like a junkie alone in a dirty place getting his fix. The door popped open and as I looked up and blew smoke out, I realized it was Becky’s father. He pretended he hadn’t seen me as he turned toward the urinal.
I snuffed out the butt and on my way out, I uncomfortably said, “By the way, I smoke.”
The brews went down fast and easy after that. Then, I did something completely out of character. I took the 90-year-old granny out on the dance floor. Yep, I was “that guy.” The place howled with approval.
There I was, swinging it with granny, hoping she wouldn’t break a hip.
I could see arms reaching to tug shoulders in the crowd. Fingers pointed and lips moved, “Who’s that guy?”
“Becky’s boyfriend.”
The mother of the groom, Becky’s aunt, seemed as spirited as I was, “You two are next – I know. You’re made for each other.”
One of the uncles was holding court at a nearby table trying to explain his philosophy of the overall party scene to Becky’s dad. It was something he called, “The dance of the unborn children.”
On the way home, I sat in the backseat staring out the dark window, cringing at the thoughts of the night. The silence was broken by Becky’s dad. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of him in the rear view mirror as he was driving.
His eyes looked into that mirror back at me and he mumbled something as if it were meant for my ears only, “Some people may seem great to everyone else but nobody’s ever good enough for your daughter.”
Practical Joke Gone Bad
Jerry was about as clean cut as they come. It was no wonder that he freaked out one of his new fraternity brothers when they came back to our house after a party. Next door was a cute little home, well-kept for our neighborhood, well-kept for being vacant. And with the lights on timers, you’d never suspect that no one lived there.
Before Evan could even ask what Jerry was doing, Jerry picked up a rock the size of his head. Who knows what he had in mind, but he insists it was much less crazy than what happened. Once he hoisted the rock over his head, the weight threw him off balance. He staggered into the neighbor’s yard – our houses were close – and let go before he hurt himself. The rock smashed through a window.
Jerry sprang to his feet to tell Evan that no one lived there. Evan had already run to his car and peeled out.
The way Jerry told us the story it seemed as if we were listening to a confession. But the sins would only get deeper.
First, we taped a note to the front door of the neighboring house saying we were responsible for the broken window and would be replacing it. Then, a slippery slope of bad decisions ensued.
We loved pulling practical jokes. To really pull off this latest prank, we changed the answering machine message at a girlfriend’s house. It took a while but we finally got a complete message recorded without blowing up in laughter.
“Hello, you’ve reached the desk of Mitchell and Schmidt at station 12. Leave a message.” We were careful not to impersonate an officer but were vague enough to let the imagination run wild.
Then, we auditioned for the real zinger. The gig went to our housemate with the deepest voice. He promptly called Evan but his roommate answered, instead.
“I’m sorry, did you say …,” the roommate’s voice turned very formal and compliant.
“Indeed. We just want to ask Evan a few questions. You see, someone reported a car fleeing the scene of an incident last night, having his license plate number. The incident resulted in an elderly couple suffering injuries from broken glass. They’re okay but we’d like to talk to Evan. Have him call us when he returns.”
The roommate was loud and clear, “Yes sir! You can count on me.”
We hung up and laughed for a while, taking turns saying, “Yes sir! You can count on me.”
Eventually, we got bored and hungry so we went out for burgers. The burger-outing turned into a couple of hours shooting pool.
When we returned, we called down to the girlfriend’s house to check the answering machine. No new messages. So, we called Evan and got the roommate again.
“Oh, yes sir, I gave him the message as soon as he came in. He tried to call you right away. Then, he left here to drive there and turn himself in.”
We hung up. Eyes bulged. Jaws dropped.
Down at the nearest police station, Evan threw himself at the mercy of whoever would listen to him hyperventilate the details. They checked the reports from the night before – twice.
Finally, “Give me your name again son. Full name. Address. Phone. License…If we get a report like this, you’ll be the first one we call.”
Ding!
Jerry and I were watching TV on an ancient, wooden floor model. The screen went black. The picture tube must be shot, we thought. We called around and determined it wasn’t worth a repair. By bedtime, only one housemate didn’t know about the loss of our monstrosity of a television.
We figured it was good for one more show – one more prank.
Mark came home from the library. He was the most studious of us all. He had an exam in the morning and thought he was the last one up. The rest of us made ourselves scarce, hoping to get the show on the road.
Lights went out and all was quiet. We heard Mark’s bedsprings squeak when he hit the sheets. We were brimming with anticipation. Jerry was taking his good ole time. We began to suspect he chickened out.
Then, there was stirring.
Jerry shouted, “Those damn Cavs!”
He was faking anger at a Cleveland Cavalier’s loss.
He cussed some more about the Cavs and said, “I can’t take it anymore!”
Pause.
DING!
The plan was for Jerry to smash the TV screen with a baseball bat to get a rise out Mark. The screen obviously had different plans. Nobody realized how thick that sucker was.
Then, another pause.
“Damn Cavs!”
DING!
Nothing.
DING!
Pause.
DING-DING-DING!
I almost suffocated laughing because my head was so far buried beneath a pile of blankets.
“What are you doing!” called out Mark.
Finally, SMASH!
It was immediately followed by CRACK as Mark’s door blasted open and hit the wall. He stormed out, tackled Jerry and wrangled the bat from him. He then proceeded to beat him with his fists.
Jerry pleaded for his life and all we could do to save him was roll out, laughing hysterically.
Bird in the Hand
This story starts on a snowy spring night at our college rental home. Jerry cranked the heat as high as the thermostat would allow an
d declared it summertime. We packed coolers with snow and beer, set-up lawn chairs and played golf.
Our house was a par-5. We’d tee-off with our putters from my bedroom in the front of the house to get the ball to the living room. Then we had to play the slants in the floors just right to get the ball to roll through the dining room and into the kitchen. If it banked off the sink just right, you’d be sitting pretty at the top of three steps going to the sunken, back family room. That’s where the cup was.
With our girlfriends in bikinis and the smell of suntan lotion in the air, college life was never better considering it was too snowy to go anywhere else.
Here I Thought I Was Normal: Micro Memoirs of Mischief Page 15