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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Action & Adventure
- Subject: Childhood / Youth
- Published: 12/03/2024
Stupid Kid Tricks
Born 1947, M, from Colorado Springs, CO, United States.jpeg)
Stupid Kid Tricks
“A child is a curly, dimpled lunatic.”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson-
Fred Nemo settled into the newly painted Adirondack Chair on his lower deck, his frothy cup of latte gingerly balanced atop a tattered, marble composition notebook.
Now in his late 70s, he came armed with what his grandchildren called his “Poppi Pencil,” a stubby remnant of what once was a 7.5 inch, #2 lead pencil. Like him, the pencil was somewhat hewed, and a bit worn down but still marginally effective.
With a nod toward modern technology (and just in case he got inspired by what the entertainer, Snoop Doggy Dog called the “Gangsta’ Holy Ghost”) he also carried a Digital Voice-Recorder in his shirt pocket, allowing him to dictate stories and send spoken drafts to his laptop for revision. He was ready to write something, but where to start, what to do?
He remembered recently re-reading St. Augustine’s Confessions. His thoughts turned to the story about the teen-aged Augustine and his gang of young rascals, who just for the heck of it, stole pears from a neighbor’s tree, taking a few bites and feeding the rest to the pigs. Guilt and regret settling in long after Augustine matured. That story of youthful misadventures made him smile. Taking another sip of his coffee, he found himself getting nostalgic, chuckling over some of his own youthful indiscretions. Once again that Gangsta’ Holy Ghost came through, and Yep, there it was!
Why not jot down some youthful escapades that always brought such a roguish smile to his face? Stupid kid tricks, these days described by scientists as “adrenaline-induced thrills.” Like that snowy winter day when he was about twelve years old, heading home from school with his somewhat pudgy, best friend and classmate “Truck.” Along the way and looking for excitement they decided to do something about the adults driving cars up and down their city street and disrupting games kids were playing.
“Look man, this is a war,” exclaimed Truck. “We gotta’ get ‘em off our street, we gotta’ fight back, you know?”
“Ahh, but what about the folks who live in our neighborhood.” I said. “They gotta’ get back and forth to work and stuff. Besides, they’ll rat us out to our parents.”
Truck paused to consider this, finally saying “Yeah, we’ll have to give them a pass, but maybe we can put a stop to those “Brooklyn Cowboys” racing up our street and interrupting our fun, you know? And maybe we can stop those guys who use the corner bar from driving on our street. It’ll be a public service, you know, discouraging drunk driving and all that.”
“And how are we gonna’ do that?” I asked skeptically.
“Well, we could make it uncomfortable for them to stop there during the day. We disrupt their mid-afternoon drinking, you know? I mean, who drinks booze this early in the day anyways?”
“I don’t know, guys who work hard, get off early and don’t want to go home yet?” I suggested.
“Yeah, maybe, mused Truck, but it’s right after school, when we’re playing football.” He exclaimed. “I’m thinkin,’ you know, they’re just drunks, right? Hangin’ out on bar stools, drinkin’ whiskey and talkin’ crazy.”
“We could take guerilla action, like those soldiers who sneaked behind enemy lines during World War II. Hit and run man. If we can’t get rid of ‘em, I’ll bet we can have some fun getting a rise out of them.”
“You mean like pissin’ them off and seeing what they’ll do? Hoping they’ll be stumbling around, bumpin’ into things, cursing and being too stupid drunk to do anything about it?” I queried.
“Yeah, and finally deciding they need to go somewhere else to drink. They’re off our street, the kids are safer, and we are the heroes, man. Viva the Resistance!”
We discussed ideas with other kids and came up with a two-pronged plan of attack. Truck and I would devise actions directed at annoying people in the bar. Others would set up snowball ambushes meant to discourage drivers from using our street.
The next day kids hurried home from school and began building snow forts staggered along the sidewalk near the road. All of them armed with a generous supply of premade snowballs.
The idea was to time the speed of an interloper’s car with snowballs thrown in a high arc like a mortar; if done correctly, the descending snowballs would meet the hood of a moving car resulting in a deafening tin roar. Ka-Boom!
A perfect lob would guarantee unsuspecting drivers would jump out of their skin. Most would drive off, cursing and screaming through rolled down windows. Sometimes, when vehicles came to a screeching halt, men especially would jump out of their cars and threaten us using words that, well, no child should ever hear. Should they advance toward a particular fort, they would be pelted with snowballs coming from several directions. The wise would retreat to their car and speed off. Rarely would kids have to run away. Nevertheless, in victory or in temporary retreat, the street would ring with cheering and hysterical laughing. The sound of sweet victory. We loved it.
Meanwhile, Truck and I cautiously approached our target, fully aware that just about anything could happen. Throwing open the door to the Tavern we started yelling things like, “Hey, you drunks! Time to go, your mama’s looking for ya!” This went on for a minute or so. Suddenly, the proprietor came running out, screaming obscenities, and holding metal garbage can lids. Two in each hand!
I yelled, “Incoming!” We turned and ran, Truck motoring his hefty frame straight ahead—I never saw him run so fast--me sprinting in a “Z” pattern, avoiding stoops and fire hydrants. Both of us dodging lids that banged off telephone poles and trees, each missile crashing to the sidewalk making a terrible din.
Huffing and puffing we reached the next corner before the barrage ended and the proprietor retreated. We broke into hysterical laughter, jumping up and down and celebrating our survival. We promised ourselves that tomorrow, immediately after school, we would attack again.
The next day, while other kids took their positions at each snow fort, we approached our objective. Facing sudden death by garbage can lid, we once again threw open the tavern’s front door and began to yell, “Hey you drun…” our screams cut short by a bucket full of water and ice thrown over our heads.
Busted.
Soaked, shivering, and subdued, we headed home to get changed, hoping our mothers wouldn’t see us slosh in. Still, it was a rush and even though Truck complained we never got a Purple Heart for our service to the neighborhood, it was great fun! The Good Sisters at school, not knowing the details, would consider this a “moral victory.” So, we moved on to other adventures which shall remain unwritten…for now.
****
My wife Catherine opened the sliding door and joined me on the deck. Seeing my amused look of contentment she mused, “What are you smiling at now, love?”
“Oh, I was just getting in touch with my inner child.”
“You mean that cute, little Catholic kid I saw in all those old pictures?”
“Yep, just a regular little angel, that kid.”
THE END
© 2024 Gerald R. Gioglio
Note: In the 1950s, television hosts would perform incredible and often dangerous stunts, reminding impressionable young viewers, “Do not try this at home.” Just sayin’.
Gerald R. Gioglio is the author of Marching to a Silent Tune: A Journey from We Shall to Hell No. Available from Amazon.com.
“A child is a curly, dimpled lunatic.”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson-
Fred Nemo settled into the newly painted Adirondack Chair on his lower deck, his frothy cup of latte gingerly balanced atop a tattered, marble composition notebook.
Now in his late 70s, he came armed with what his grandchildren called his “Poppi Pencil,” a stubby remnant of what once was a 7.5 inch, #2 lead pencil. Like him, the pencil was somewhat hewed, and a bit worn down but still marginally effective.
With a nod toward modern technology (and just in case he got inspired by what the entertainer, Snoop Doggy Dog called the “Gangsta’ Holy Ghost”) he also carried a Digital Voice-Recorder in his shirt pocket, allowing him to dictate stories and send spoken drafts to his laptop for revision. He was ready to write something, but where to start, what to do?
He remembered recently re-reading St. Augustine’s Confessions. His thoughts turned to the story about the teen-aged Augustine and his gang of young rascals, who just for the heck of it, stole pears from a neighbor’s tree, taking a few bites and feeding the rest to the pigs. Guilt and regret settling in long after Augustine matured. That story of youthful misadventures made him smile. Taking another sip of his coffee, he found himself getting nostalgic, chuckling over some of his own youthful indiscretions. Once again that Gangsta’ Holy Ghost came through, and Yep, there it was!
Why not jot down some youthful escapades that always brought such a roguish smile to his face? Stupid kid tricks, these days described by scientists as “adrenaline-induced thrills.” Like that snowy winter day when he was about twelve years old, heading home from school with his somewhat pudgy, best friend and classmate “Truck.” Along the way and looking for excitement they decided to do something about the adults driving cars up and down their city street and disrupting games kids were playing.
“Look man, this is a war,” exclaimed Truck. “We gotta’ get ‘em off our street, we gotta’ fight back, you know?”
“Ahh, but what about the folks who live in our neighborhood.” I said. “They gotta’ get back and forth to work and stuff. Besides, they’ll rat us out to our parents.”
Truck paused to consider this, finally saying “Yeah, we’ll have to give them a pass, but maybe we can put a stop to those “Brooklyn Cowboys” racing up our street and interrupting our fun, you know? And maybe we can stop those guys who use the corner bar from driving on our street. It’ll be a public service, you know, discouraging drunk driving and all that.”
“And how are we gonna’ do that?” I asked skeptically.
“Well, we could make it uncomfortable for them to stop there during the day. We disrupt their mid-afternoon drinking, you know? I mean, who drinks booze this early in the day anyways?”
“I don’t know, guys who work hard, get off early and don’t want to go home yet?” I suggested.
“Yeah, maybe, mused Truck, but it’s right after school, when we’re playing football.” He exclaimed. “I’m thinkin,’ you know, they’re just drunks, right? Hangin’ out on bar stools, drinkin’ whiskey and talkin’ crazy.”
“We could take guerilla action, like those soldiers who sneaked behind enemy lines during World War II. Hit and run man. If we can’t get rid of ‘em, I’ll bet we can have some fun getting a rise out of them.”
“You mean like pissin’ them off and seeing what they’ll do? Hoping they’ll be stumbling around, bumpin’ into things, cursing and being too stupid drunk to do anything about it?” I queried.
“Yeah, and finally deciding they need to go somewhere else to drink. They’re off our street, the kids are safer, and we are the heroes, man. Viva the Resistance!”
We discussed ideas with other kids and came up with a two-pronged plan of attack. Truck and I would devise actions directed at annoying people in the bar. Others would set up snowball ambushes meant to discourage drivers from using our street.
The next day kids hurried home from school and began building snow forts staggered along the sidewalk near the road. All of them armed with a generous supply of premade snowballs.
The idea was to time the speed of an interloper’s car with snowballs thrown in a high arc like a mortar; if done correctly, the descending snowballs would meet the hood of a moving car resulting in a deafening tin roar. Ka-Boom!
A perfect lob would guarantee unsuspecting drivers would jump out of their skin. Most would drive off, cursing and screaming through rolled down windows. Sometimes, when vehicles came to a screeching halt, men especially would jump out of their cars and threaten us using words that, well, no child should ever hear. Should they advance toward a particular fort, they would be pelted with snowballs coming from several directions. The wise would retreat to their car and speed off. Rarely would kids have to run away. Nevertheless, in victory or in temporary retreat, the street would ring with cheering and hysterical laughing. The sound of sweet victory. We loved it.
Meanwhile, Truck and I cautiously approached our target, fully aware that just about anything could happen. Throwing open the door to the Tavern we started yelling things like, “Hey, you drunks! Time to go, your mama’s looking for ya!” This went on for a minute or so. Suddenly, the proprietor came running out, screaming obscenities, and holding metal garbage can lids. Two in each hand!
I yelled, “Incoming!” We turned and ran, Truck motoring his hefty frame straight ahead—I never saw him run so fast--me sprinting in a “Z” pattern, avoiding stoops and fire hydrants. Both of us dodging lids that banged off telephone poles and trees, each missile crashing to the sidewalk making a terrible din.
Huffing and puffing we reached the next corner before the barrage ended and the proprietor retreated. We broke into hysterical laughter, jumping up and down and celebrating our survival. We promised ourselves that tomorrow, immediately after school, we would attack again.
The next day, while other kids took their positions at each snow fort, we approached our objective. Facing sudden death by garbage can lid, we once again threw open the tavern’s front door and began to yell, “Hey you drun…” our screams cut short by a bucket full of water and ice thrown over our heads.
Busted.
Soaked, shivering, and subdued, we headed home to get changed, hoping our mothers wouldn’t see us slosh in. Still, it was a rush and even though Truck complained we never got a Purple Heart for our service to the neighborhood, it was great fun! The Good Sisters at school, not knowing the details, would consider this a “moral victory.” So, we moved on to other adventures which shall remain unwritten…for now.
****
My wife Catherine opened the sliding door and joined me on the deck. Seeing my amused look of contentment she mused, “What are you smiling at now, love?”
“Oh, I was just getting in touch with my inner child.”
“You mean that cute, little Catholic kid I saw in all those old pictures?”
“Yep, just a regular little angel, that kid.”
THE END
© 2024 Gerald R. Gioglio
Note: In the 1950s, television hosts would perform incredible and often dangerous stunts, reminding impressionable young viewers, “Do not try this at home.” Just sayin’.
Gerald R. Gioglio is the author of Marching to a Silent Tune: A Journey from We Shall to Hell No. Available from Amazon.com.
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