A family that Cindy’s family and ours were friends with when I was growing up had an English Springer spaniel named Cinnamon. We had one at the same time named Nutmeg. She had some issues, though, namely the fact that she was hit by a car, so for a while, we were dogless. In the meantime, this family moved to South Carolina and eventually bred Cinnamon. They contacted my Dad and told him that we could have one of the puppies if we drove down to get it! My Dad was ecstatic, to say the least. So I rode shotgun with my Dad from Michigan down to South Carolina to get Max (the English Springer that I told you about in a previous tale). And thus begins my story….
This family had a son named Jeff who was a year younger than I was. By this time, we were both entering the high school years of our youth, not quite able to drive on our own, yet feeling that urge to experience some sort of independence that sooner or later inevitably befalls every teenager–especially teenage boys. So we did the best we could do at the time: we ventured out into his suburban neighborhood armed with his bottle rocket launcher and a mess of bottle rockets. Ok, it was more like he dragged me out there with him as his accomplice to whatever mayhem and malice aforethought he was contriving in that fourteen-year-old brain of his. I was a quiet, obedient kid and that didn’t change as I grew up. So this was really taking me out of my comfort zone. And what made it worse was knowing that once I lost sight of his house, I had no idea where we would be or how to get back if I had to break away and make a run for it (yes, I had a distinct feeling that I would eventually be doing that, any specific reasons for it unknown in that moment, except for the aforementioned contraband that we both had in our possession). I had no choice but to stick to him like glue if I ever wanted to see the comfort and safety of the only thing that was familiar to me: his house, where I knew both our Dads were preparing some amazing steaks that I couldn’t wait to eat.
As we were jogging down the street and began darting between houses, Jeff asking for a bottle rocket and me handing him his first load of ammo as we were doing so, I began to think that our Dads may be picking us up from a local jail cell before this was all over. What would I say?? “That’s not mine.” Or, “I don’t know how that fire that burned down five houses got started.” Or, “Dogs howling and barking all over the neighborhood?” (I begin to break down, sobbing uncontrollably) “It was him, officer! I was coerced and forced into this against my will! He made me hand him those bottle rockets! I…I….(Oh, no!) Hi Dad….”
So there I was, trailing Jeff as we jogged down back alleys and became one with the dark that was the night around us (actually, it was a well-lit neighborhood with plenty of street lights, but that’s what it felt like). At different times we would stop and take up position. I would hand Jeff a bottle rocket, he would put it in the launcher, light it and tap the rocket down into the launcher. We would wait an eternal two or three seconds as the fuse burned and we eventually heard a FWOOP! sound that told us the bottle rocket had left the launcher like a missile cut loose in the water to leave its mark on an unsuspecting target with no way to stop it. We got this routine down so well that muscle memory took over and we began launching bottle rockets from a full run. Somewhere along the way, though, one of Jeff’s neighborhood buddies joined us and took over my role (a position I very willingly gave up), so now all I could do was make sure I hid and ran and kept up with the other two.
We made our way to the lit-up tennis courts (yes, this neighborhood had tennis courts) and Jeff proceeded to ask for another bottle rocket. These tennis courts were nestled in the bottom of an earth bowl, surrounded by trees on three sides (which is where we were hiding out). I watched his buddy hand him a bottle rocket with shaking hands. As I got my hands calmed down, I watched as Jeff placed it in the launcher and lighted it. FWOOP! We watched as it arced itself over the middle of the tennis courts, an increasingly loud whistle giving way to a very loud BANG!!. Foul language wafted upwards from the courts as the unsuspecting victims looked up into the sky, wondering what atrocity had just befallen them from the sky above. Jeff launched another one. FWOOP! BANG!! Now at least one of those unsuspecting victims had turned rogue and was walking in our direction very fast. We turned tail and ran like the wind for a block or two. We started to see vehicles driving around more frequently. They’re on to us. They’re hunting us like dogs. We were “on the lam”, fleeing like the criminals we were!
We found ourselves inbetween apartment complexes, looking down a swath of backyard fifty feet wide and fifty yards long. We all looked at each other and we all knew what the other was thinking. Me: No! You wouldn’t….you really want to, don’t you…..but…. Jeff (and his buddy): This is perfect! How can I pass this up?! Give it to me! (in Jeff’s buddy’s case, Give it to him!). When Jeff launched that rocket, the whistle it made ricocheted off the backsides of the apartment complexes, making it five times as loud as it normally was. As a result, the BANG! we normally heard from a bottle rocket was more like a BOOM! from a cannon.
We all turned and fled the scene, me going the direction I was pretty sure was Jeff’s house and didn’t care if I was right or not, and Jeff pleading with me to go with him and his buddy as they headed off in another direction. He saw I was done, though, so he acquiesced and walked with me back to his house.
I was emotionally exhausted. Spent. Ready to turn in for the night (or at least turn myself in).
I’ll tell you this: There’s nothing like a hard night’s running from justice and the long arm of the law to really appreciate a good steak.