This story ends with me waking my parents at 3:50 a.m., in order for them to talk to the police officer downstairs. It begins at 12:30 a.m. with me talking to my friend Laura on AOL Instant Messenger.
lolzypop8771: we’re all meeting up by the museum
lolzypop8771: we’re egging cars!!
This was a shocking message coming from Laura, mostly because she is not someone who would egg cars. She wasn’t nerdy, introverted, or a goody-goody, but she was a girl. And yes, I believe girls can do everything guys can, except have a penis, and even there I’m hazy on the details, but I had never heard of a girl wanting to egg cars. “Egging-cars” is every dumb teenage boy’s middle name. I knew it was dumb and I knew it was ridiculous and I knew it was something that I needed to be a part of.
barticusillonius: I’ll be there in twelve minutes.
While in high school, here’s how I made decisions: I imagined myself ten years in the future, looking back at my current self as a fifteen-year-old and saying, “when I was young and stupid, I really took advantage of being young and stupid.” Once you do that, making poor decisions is easy.
I tip-toed down the stairs, out the side door, jogged down my street, turned right, and kept running to join the other four. Every time I heard a car, I Chuck Norrised into bushes or Jackie Channed behind a telephone pole. Sneaking out of the house was badass. I hadn’t even heard of it until I started public school. I didn’t know it was a thing. Apparently guys would sneak out to girl’s houses and they would make out until lips fell off. I remember the first time I heard about this phenomenon. “We had a sleepover on Friday at Robby’s. We all snuck out to Katie’s”
“WHAAATTTT?!?!?” [Head explodes] “What did you do? How did you get there? That’s like a 45 minute walk! …And isn’t the correct past-tense of ‘sneak’ ‘sneaked’?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Oh, come. on. Dude.”
“Dude, don’t even worry about it.”
“Dude. I’m worrying about it! Tell me.”
…“Wait, which one is that?”
“Don’t even worry about it.”
I met up with everyone on Mass Ave, near the Museum of our National Heritage. There’s a wall that goes up about four feet from the sidewalk, and a hill that goes for about 100 yards into trees, bushes, and thick brush. There are houses that border the hill, near a Revolutionary War-era tavern.
“Bart! Man! You just missed it. We hit a truck, he stopped—we ran to the bike path, just booked it, he was yelling at us the whole time, just so pissed off, it was awesome.”
That doesn’t sound awesome, I thought. You got chased? What if you get caught? I kept my concerns to myself and acted like I knew about egging cars. I had, after all, thrown snowballs at cars. I knew about that. I had thrown water balloons. When we were young, my brother and I loaded super-soakers, set up plywood next to our mailbox, and hid behind it while shooting cars as they passed our house. We thought we had a perfect hiding spot. In hindsight, it wasn’t too covert—one of the trucks that we sprayed stopped, reversed, and the guy in the passenger seat held a tennis ball menacingly, looking ready to beam us. (This just in: you can hold a tennis ball menacingly.) So I knew a thing or two about hitting cars with other things.
Laura, Sam, Andy, Jack, and I gathered ourselves and took hiding places behind a few large trees just beyond the wall that rose from the sidewalk. We were about twenty feet from the road. A car started down the street towards us. Heading east. “Not this one—looks like a nice car. Let’s wait it out.” Ok. Another car passed the opposite direction. “Hold, not this one either.”
Okay, I thought, there’s a science to this. We waited about five minutes. A truck came. “Don’t do it, the last guy got really mad.” Man, are we going to do this or what? Five more minutes. “Hey guys!” I heard myself say. “It’s a Toyota Camry!” “Nice.” Andy and Sam were in. We waited for the Camry to come closer. “Don’t throw too early because they’ll see us and stop the car.” The car was right next to us. “NOW!”
We all came out from behind our trees like were were ambushing the Redcoats and let our eggs fly. CRACK CRACKCRACK. Three out of five, not bad. The driver pounded the brakes and the car skidded and screeched to a stop.
We started running up the hill. All four doors opened and guys poured out, jumped the wall, and smelled blood in the water. I’m a pretty fast guy, but my legs literally turned to Jello. Literally. My torso toppled to the ground and we all ate my literal Jello legs and laughed about the good old days when legs were literally made out of human parts. (Rant on the use of the word literal to follow.)
I was not prepared for this. I figured I could outrun any old fogie who would jump out of their car. Sam ran to the left, Laura ducked behind a tree, and I followed Jack and Andy into the brush. We dove head first and stayed silent with our faces buried in our shirts to muffle our breathing.
Dear God, please don’t let us get caught. I’ll never do anything bad again.
END PART 2
Bart Tocci (’11) lives in Boston where he writes essays, performs at open mics, and threatens to start taco restaurants. He’s been told that he looks like the kind of guy who stands up for what’s right. And who goes to the store before the party. Read more here: barttocci.wordpress.com