I went bowling for the first time in long while the other day. It was fine as far as bowling goes, but there was an incident with the group bowling next to us. They were four college-age young men, and they were kind of jerks about one of the bowling protocols.
The bowling protocols are simple: 1.) Don’t wear bowling shoes into the men’s room, because there’s always pee on the floor; 2.) Throw the bowling ball down the alley, never into the gallery; and 3.) Wait for your neighbor to finish their turn before starting your approach.
The young men next to us violated number three all night. We shot them dirty looks, and complained to each other. Maybe they overheard us because it took an ugly turn by the end of the night.
I was angry but had to remind myself that I was kind of an idiot when I was their age.
I did a few dumb things back in the day
Fresh out of high school, my friends and I were adults in name only. We were all basically kids, and pretty dumb kids at that. Oh, we had some clever moments, but the only time it paid to be dumb as a rock was during the Stone Age.
One evening, as I sat in the patio behind our garage drinking with Ron, Charles Lee, and Eddie, one of us had the idea of stealing the lawn statue from the house in my neighborhood.
The lawn statue in question was a three-foot-high man dressed in a uniform, with a little cap on his head, often referred to as “lawn jockeys.” They were sold at department stores and people would display them on their front lawn. The mere existence of the statues is worthy of an essay because they were often portrayed as African-Americans, embodying much of America’s racial shame; and, yet, they were meant to convey the good taste of the homeowner.
It was after midnight when we conceived of this great lawn statue caper. The idea was to sneak in under cover of darkness, grab the statue, and leave it somewhere prominent, such as on the three-meter spring board at the city pool, or at the front door of city hall, or on top of the high school from which we all recently graduated.
These were all great ideas, and my mind raced ahead to how awesome this was going to be. Like, once everyone saw that we put a lawn statue on top of the school, I’d get a date.
I really can’t explain my 18-year-old brain any better than that.
On to the Caper
We emerged from the back yard and walked to the other side of the neighborhood. As I likely mentioned in a previous Picayune, mine was a post-war neighborhood of tract housing, mostly two-bedroom bungalows of brick or clapboard siding. The houses were quiet. The loudest noises were cars passing on the thoroughfares that served as boundaries along two sides of the neighborhood.
We moved strutted along the sidewalk, our confidence growing from one streetlight to the next. As we drew closer, we imposed an operational silence, communicating with whispers and gestures, just like we’d seen Vic Morrow do on so many episodes of Combat.
The house hosting the lawn statue was dark and quiet. We walked up and gave a tug, but the statue didn’t move. With a quick whispered consultation, we concluded that the statue was made of cement, and that we had miscalculated its weight.
Years later, after reading Sun Tzu, I’d know that we’d made the classic mistake of underestimating our enemy. But on that warm summer night, surrounded by darkness, this was not a problem. Ron, Eddie and I had been working out all summer, pumping iron on the Universal machine at the city Rec Center, along with extra bench pressing in the patio behind my garage.
We crowded around the statue and heaved. Again, no movement. But we urged each other on, grunted and groaned, then cursed at the damn thing.
For those of you keeping score at home, we were now deep into our second mistake: we broke operational silence.
But by exhorting each other to lift, pull, and by push the little guy, we finally got it to move. Like the Playboy bunny once said about Hugh, we were able to raise it a few inches before it slipped from our sweaty hands and flopped over on its side.
We realized it was tethered from below because it was wired-up to be a lamp. The lantern in the statue’s hand was a working light. A moment later, the door opened, and the man of the house burst forth screaming at us “assholes” to get the hell out of there.
We ran across the street and ducked into a backyard, got caught up in a clothesline, answering the question, “How many virgins can you snare in a clothesline at night.”
The angry old guy didn’t seem to be chasing us, so we thought we could cut through a few more yards and make our way safely back to the patio behind my garage. A second later, two police cruisers rushed down the street. The son of a bitch had called the cops. We made a break for the city park.
Charles Lee, Ron and Eddie continued through the park—they lived on the other side of town—and I doubled back to my house. I slipped into my house and got up to my attic bedroom. I watched from the window as a police cruiser rolled down the street, sweeping his spotlight between the houses.
The lawn statue’s revenge
Later that night, the police came knocking on Charles Lee’s door. It turned out the angry old guy recognized him. But good old Chuck was up for the challenge. If we had the brawn, he had the brains.
Eddie’s father was a police sergeant, and Chuck answered every question the cops asked with, “Yeah, Eddie K. was with us and we’re real sorry.”
Eventually, the cops got bored and called it a night.
Back at the bowling alley
We finished bowling and chatted over a beer, complaining about the jerks who bowled beside us. When we called it a night, I realized my street shoes were missing. Then we realized that my friend’s jacket was gone, as well.
We had shared a space with the jerk bowlers beside us, and they stole our stuff. It was quite the night of bowling.
We had gone through the five phases of bowling grief:
- Denial that we suck at bowling
- Anger at our jerk bowling neighbors
- Bargaining with the gods to please, please let me pick up this spare
- Depression that we weren’t going to break 100
- Acceptance that the jerks took our stuff
Forgive yourself, forgive your neighbor
The jerk bowling neighbors did something dumb, but I’ll forgive them, just as I have to forgive myself for being an idiot in my youth.
I eventually outgrew my stupid ideas. I hope the kid wearing my shoes and sporting my friend’s jacket does the same.
Besides, I have a raging case of toe fungus, so that kid is in for some itchy feet.
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk…
I spent a lot of time updating my website lately. You should check it out: https://www.mickeyhadick.com
What I learned is that updating a website is an effective way to avoid working on novels. Now that the website is tidied up, I’ll be working on my novel again real soon.
Recommended Reading
I’m still reading Rabbit Hutch by Tess Gunty. It’s really good but it turns out that I don’t get a lot of reading done when I spend a lot of time working on my website.
Next Picayune
Next time I’ll have some book deals to go with the stories. I hope you have a fun Halloween. Thanks for reading the Mickey Picayune.
All the best,
Mickey
P.S. I could use some help spreading the word about my writing, so if you know someone who might like my storytelling or jokes, please forward this email and tell them to check out https://www.mickeyhadick.com