Subject: Wuss Vandals Get Hassled By The Man

Date: Thu, 18 Sep 1997 05:25:18 -0700

From: truwe@mind.net

Organization: The Group Home for the Easily Amused

Newsgroups: alt.slack.devo, alt.slack

 

Rev. Anna Truwe

October 1996

English 11, period 1

 

Wuss Vandals Get Hassled by the Man

 

Last year my small band of rebels had a date with Destiny,

in the form of thirteen rolls of duct tape. Let me begin by

explaining that the four of us (myself, S---, B--, and M----)

have made it our mission to redecorate the school under cover of

darkness. Among other things, we've stapled bacon to the rafters

of the outdoor walkways, sprayed the bushes with Santa Snow, and

deposited nearly sixty bowling balls about the grounds. We've

only been caught once, and that was because we grew bold enough

to leave a manifesto. Plus, some Drama Club kid squealed.

 

We've a bit of a grudge against the school rock, a boulder

that serves as an acceptable surface to spray paint when the

tagging urge becomes too great. After an all-day attempt to bolt

a chair to the rock, involving a lengthy drilling session, a

couple of lock washers and a tube of Lok-Tite, our efforts proved

to be in vain when, the next morning, a couple of jocks just

yanked the whole chair off. Jocks (not athletes, mind you,

jocks) either can't stand change or only know how to express

themselves through destruction. We're constructive, or at least

additive.

 

The question on all of our minds was what to do next. It

had better be darn spectacular, now that our identities were

semi-public knowledge. It was my idea, as usual, that we should

somehow enlarge the rock.

 

"How?" asked S---. "Cement?"

 

"Well, that would take too long to set, we'd have to either

mix it and carry it in or bring water and mix it there. Also

they could get it off with a jackhammer." B-- is practical about

this sort of thing.

 

"That blows my suggestion of paper mache right out of the

water, then." said M----.

 

"How about just covering the thing with duct tape? They'll

just paint over it, then we can do it again in a month. It'll

grow slowly until it's the size of a Buick, then it'll be too

late!" It seems I have most of the ideas. I wouldn't mind that

if it just gave me a reputation, but I'm worried how it might

stand up in court.

 

After discussing the price and durability of duct tape it

was resolved. We would purchase enough to cover it twice and

stealthily wrap the offending boulder with it. When I next saw

B--, I reported we'd bought five rolls. He seemed stunned.

 

"Five rolls? That's not even enough to wrap M---- up! How

do you figure five rolls?" He promptly drove off to buy more,

returning with eight shrink wrapped rolls of the sticky stuff,

bringing us to a total of thirteen rolls. I trusted my original

calculations of surface, but figured that a few extra layers

wouldn't hurt. Besides, B-- paid for them.

 

The big night finally arrived. Sunday. We'd arranged to

meet at home base, my house, at nine p.m. At half past I placed

a call to S---, with B-- and M---- waiting impatiently beside me.

"Oh! That's tonight? Sorry, be right over."

 

While waiting for S--- to turn up, I cut the shrink wrapping

off the duct tape and stacked them all in an imposing grey tower.

I also went on a last minute hunt through the house, looking for

something to tape to the rock, hopefully giving the whole thing a

deeper meaning. I ended up with a legless goose decoy I'd spray

painted silver the previous summer in a fit of inspiration and

since forgotten.

 

"Oh, I get it, we're using duct tape and it's a duck."

M---- said, warming to the idea.

 

"No, it's a goose." I said for what would not be the last

time that night.

 

At ten of ten, S--- knocked on the door. After we finally

got him to stop apologizing and explained that it was a goose,

not a duck, we set off on the long, hard, three-block drive to

the school. We took S---'s vehicle, a sleek, aquamarine marvel

of technology, in case we needed a quick getaway, and because the

only other auto around was a 1960 Volkswagen Transporter in a

particularly memorable shade of yellow.

 

We parked excitedly in the deserted parking lot. The dim

yellow streetlights gave a jaundiced cast to our faces as we

surveyed the surroundings. The rock was freshly painted with a

Mexican flag on beige background, rendering the paint thinner and

rags we'd brought to prepare the surface useless. There was no

one in sight. The soft drink machines hummed as I went back to

the car to get the duct tape.

 

I got the phallic tower of adhesives from the back seat and

started to hand the top one to M---- when I realized that I

couldn't. In the half hour they'd been stacked, they had bonded,

raw edge to raw edge, and were nearly inseparable. I had to

stand on them to bend them enough to break the seal. While I

separated the rolls, my comrades secured the goose to the rock

and, as I worked more tape loose, started to wrap the rock.

 

At first we carefully stuck each length of tape to the rock,

patting it down to assure adhesion. In less than fifteen minutes

we were running around the rock like a maypole, while the goose

oversaw all with a proud tilt to its plastic head.

 

The rock was completely covered by the time we finished the

first four rolls. B-- looked a little sheepish when this was

pointed out, but we had all gotten into the spirit of things and

didn't mind the extra tape. Time lost meaning as we danced a

fairy ring around the rock, spooling out tape like kite string in

a hurricane. Some of us walked faster and would have to duck or

stretch to pass a slower taper. Soon we had only four rolls, of

different but quickly diminishing size.

 

B-- finished first. He stepped back to admire our work,

then lay back on the pavement, squinting at the stars. M----,

who was the slowest and still on her third roll of tape, finally

finished and sat on the curb, egging S--- and me on. The night

was clear and blue, and it felt as if we four were the only ones

alive, here in our pool of yellow light.

 

It was eleven and S--- and I had a quarter of a roll each

left for the masterpiece when M---- suddenly sat up straight.

"Guys..." she said, and S--- and I slowed in our wrapping.

"Someone's coming." My heart raced as I saw two men at the

parking lot entrance and two at the other end of the courtyard.

 

They walked slowly toward us. All the color drained out of S---

's face. We made eye contact and I realized he was thinking what

I was thinking. Jocks! He, perhaps, was a little more worried

than I was; his gender put him in some danger of physical

violence. I unconsciously patted my pocket to see if my pepper

spray was still there.

 

"S---." I whispered. He looked at me for an instant before

his eyes darted back at the figures slowly moving closer. "S---.

Keep wrapping. We can't run, maybe if we act natural." He

nodded, looking petrified. We'd both kept slowly circling the

rock, our bodies on autopilot, and only now did I become aware of

my movements again. My hands were numb and sticky and smelled of

industrial chemicals. My heartbeat rang so loudly in my head

that I could barely hear anything else. In my peripheral vision

I saw M---- leaning over to whisper to B-- that he might want to

sit up. I thought quickly of what might be about to happen as

the shadow men walked slowly towards us. We might be attacked,

chased off, or have the rest of our high school years made into a

hell of "lost" books, kicked-in lockers and slashed tires. Or,

maybe, possibly, with a little luck, oh please, maybe I can

convince these muscleheads that we're not from North and that

we're completely harmless and engaging in an activity that will

boost School Spirit. Maybe they'll just laugh at us. Or

maybe...

 

"Medford Police. Put your hands in the air." Which we did.

 

The adrenaline that had hit my system prevents me from

remembering exactly what happened next. The policemen all seemed

quite young, the same build as jocks but not quite as

threatening. S--- looked even more terrified than before. I was

going to say something to him to the effect of "We didn't do

anything too wrong, things should turn out okay." when I

remembered his father was on the force. Poor S---. M---- looked

a little worried, but she knew she was far too young to get

anything on her Permanent Record just yet. B--, oddly enough,

seemed unfazed. He was still lying on the pavement, hands more

or less up.

 

As soon as the officers saw that we were not vicious

adolescent hooligans, they let us put our arms down and asked us

what we were doing. We answered truthfully that we thought it

would be a lark to wrap the school rock with duct tape. The

policemen were very interested in the rock, and it was an odd

sight to see them staring at the rock, flashlights trained at the

goose, wearing full uniforms and giggling.

 

Two of them left on other business, snickering at those

crazy teens. The other two took our names down in case the

janitors wanted us to clean up.

 

"S--- M------ McC-----? Hmm, any relation to T-- McC----?"

S--- was visibly relieved when the officer said that if nothing

came of this Dad wouldn't necessarily have to know.

 

They told us they'd gotten a call in that a Hispanic gang

was tagging the school. Luckily, I had thought twice about

bringing paint for the rock and decided tape was enough. I told

them that under the tape we'd seen a fresh coat of paint with a

Mexican flag, and pointed out the fresh graffiti on the walls.

 

The two young policemen seemed very glad that they had only found

a four-member gang consisting primarily of nearsighted fat

people. Eventually they left, telling us to finish up soon. We

did, a little discouraged that we couldn't convince them that our

goose was not a duck. We got home at a quarter to twelve.

None of us ever heard anything more about the incident.

 

When I arrived at seven the next morning, someone had already

made off with the goose. When I came back from my lunch, the

tape was all off the rock. Perhaps the strips we'd used were too

long. I cursed the jocks to S---, but he told me that he'd seen

who destroyed our handiwork.

 

"Some darn slacker kid. When I left for lunch he was just

picking at it, and when I came back he had it all off and was

carrying it around. Some people have way too much time on their

hands."

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All involved in the incident gave me permission to write about

it, except the policemen who probably don't care. S--- expressed

a wish to be referred to as "Don McClure," but then I would have had to

give _everyone_ cool pseudonyms.

Annnnnna

--

<truwe@mind.net> | Ben, Shelley, Matie and/or Anna | Enough Earls! |

I will do anything to further the cause of misanthropy-Andy Richter|

*****************107 on the Earl Count | Just ignore alt.slack.devo|

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