Mischief

We were on the shallow-sloped roof of Brian's parents' house. Between us, we had a garden hose, two BB guns, and a dozen AA large eggs.

Brian's parents were at the cabin up in the mountains. Technically, Brian was in charge of his little sister, but we hadn't actually seen her in about 36 hours. We weren't worried

We had good information that trouble was brewing, and his house was going to get "hit" that night. And by "hit," I mean TP.

Our misdeeds had caught up with us. Too much terror visited on too many victims. Too many rolls of Charmin. Too many forked lawns. Too many cars wrapped in Saran Wrap. Karma, at times, can be a bitch.

We, of course, weren't going to take it lying down. We weren't the type to be victims. We had a plan. We had a defense perimeter and multiple lines of sight.

Tom wasn't there. He was dating the future Mrs. Tom at the time, and I am convinced they were out committing a myriad of sin.

Dave wasn't there either. I'm pretty sure he was one of the folks gunning for us, so to speak.

The night was warm, and Puente Avenue was quiet. The lights were off in the house below to lure our attackers into the trap. We had provisions. We were prepared for an all night siege.

Midnight, the optimum hour, came and went. Brian and I took turns keeping watch for marauding bands of tissue-bearing Hottentots. We were sentinels on the watch tower. We remained loyal to our vigil into the wee hours.

Then, suddenly, at about 1:30 in the morning, Brian said: "Fuck it, let's go inside."

"Ya." I replied.

And so we climbed down and wandered into the den to watch TV and fall asleep on the various comfy sofas.

The joke, of course, is that the attack never came. Crafty revenge was dished out as our asses went numb, perched on that dirty roof.

The thrill of anticipation was ours, though, as well as the pride of preparation and vigilance.

And in some respects, that thrill is missing today. No one TPs anyone anymore. There is no more good-natured malfeasance. There is no late-night toilet paper-toting trespassing or any other creative delinquency. We are too old. Too responsible. Too dignified.

In those days, friends of ours were as likely to wake with a field of plastic forks blooming in their yard as they were to find their Honda wrapped in plastic.

Hell, one particular friend went camping for a week without telling us. He returned to find his apartment filled with giant geometric polygons made from thousands of drinking straws and generously applied duct tape...

I miss the hunt. I miss the sneak attack. I miss the alarm of seeing a light flick on in the window of the target house...

Sometime after that night, many months later, in fact, Brian's dad mentioned to Brian that he had been up on the roof to effect some minor repair, and he found a carton of a dozen very-rotten eggs. He wondered whether Brian might have known something about that...