| TP - Nowhere Near Manhood |
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| Written by Michael Mecherikoff | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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“TP” is excerpted from Nowhere Near Manhood, by Michael Mecherikoff, available at www.NowhereNearManhood.com. Copyright 2009 Bridge Light Books, Inc. Reprinted with permission. TP 
Sometimes I like to imagine the origin of stupid things. When a crappy commercial appears on television, I envision a large, expensive conference table surrounded by marketing execs in fancy suits. “No, no, that commercial would actually describe the product we’re trying to sell. What’s next?” Mumbling. “Okay, okay, I got one. Okay, there’s this sock puppet?” “I’m listening…” “Talking to a woman at a bus stop?” As the exec continues, the other suits are smiling and nodding. “Yeah,” they say. “That’s a great idea, Gary!” Another jewel of bewildering origin is toilet-papering houses. When did this start? And by whom? There are some pretty creative souls out there, but I question the stability of the first person who headed out into the night seeking revenge, armed with a roll of toilet paper. “Yeah,” his friends said. “That’s a great idea!” As boys, though, Cameron and I cared no more about the inventor of toilet-papering houses than we cared, upon entering a dark room, that Edison invented the light bulb. TP’ing was already firmly planted in our minds. Our family had been the victim of a hit when we lived on Blue Oak Street in Camarillo, and throughout the years neighbors’ houses had been similarly wrapped. So by the time Cameron and I were teenagers, we knew a good hit when we saw one. “Dude, there’s like 20 rolls on that guy’s house!” “Oh, at least!” We had the knowledge; we had the allowance money; we had the target. Tray Heidelman was not a mean kid, nor a nerdy kid, nor a jock. In fact, other than his notable shortness and perfectly coiffed hair, he was pretty nondescript. His father happened to be a local TV weatherman, and their family lived only a couple of blocks from my friend Kyle. Kyle, on the other hand, was a mean, somewhat nerdy kid. Cameron and I arranged to spend the night at Kyle’s house, and the three of us had already agreed to TP someone. The proximity of Tray’s house to Kyle’s was really the only reason to consider it. That and it had big trees. Arriving at the grocery store that afternoon, we decided that, in case anyone asks, we needed a reason why we were buying 36 rolls of toilet paper—and nothing else. And we came up with the perfect, most plausible explanation: our uncle was going on safari and there wouldn’t be any grocery stores where he was going. Foolproof. The check-out clerk at Smith’s grocery store formed a Mona Lisa smile as each of three boys stood a 12-pack of toilet paper on his counter. “Whatcha guys up to?” he asked, and pulled an empty spool from the receipt printer. “Just shopping.” “Yeah,” Cameron concurred. Kyle adjusted his wire-rim glasses with a habitual crinkle of his nose. The clerk replaced the receipt paper and closed the printer lid. “That’s a lot of toilet paper.” “Our uncle’s going on safari,” I quickly began, “and he won’t have access to any stores, so we’re stocking up for him.” Oo, I thought. Access. Surely that word lent credibility to our story. And stocking up. Brilliant! “Mm-hm.” He scanned the first 12-pack. Boop. “Where?” “Where?” Safari. Africa. “Zimbabwe,” I replied. Kyle and Cameron remained quiet. It was obvious I could handle this situation. “Zimbabwe, huh? What does he hunt in Zimbabwe?” Boop. “Uh, he doesn’t hunt. He just goes.” “He just goes to Zimbabwe, huh? Just like that, up and off to Zimbabwe.” Boop. I shrugged and nodded. Who was I to question the actions of my wild-hearted, free-spirited, non-existent uncle who apparently was prepared for anything except the call of nature? The clerk slowly nodded. “I see. Six forty-two.” While I dug in my pocket, he continued. “Well I’m sure your uncle will be able to crap comfortably, thanks to you guys.” Laughter exploded from Kyle, while Cameron and I bit our lips, struggling to remain serious. Adults weren’t supposed to say words like crap to kids. I handed the clerk two fives, collected my change, and let Kyle and Cameron carry our uncle’s 36 rolls of toilet paper to our bikes. We had packed black clothes into our backpacks, and at two a.m. we changed and skulked like cartoon criminals through Kyle’s back door and into the night. The hit was easy and took very little time. Three dozen rolls of toilet paper are spent pretty quickly between three boys, especially when they have a plan. While Cameron furtively shrouded the cars, shrubs, and garden gnomes, Kyle and I stealthily positioned ourselves on either side of each tree, tossing rolls back and forth through the branches and over the top like high-lofted footballs. The same passing strategy worked to cover the lawn. The job was nearly complete when: “You got a problem.” Clad in boxer shorts and a tank top, the local weatherman burst like lightening from the front door. Three ninjas dressed in black dropped their rolls of toilet paper and ran like chickens through an unlit field and into a schoolyard toward Kyle’s house. After a hundred yards I stopped to catch my breath and let Cameron catch up. But Kyle wasn’t with us. He’d been on the opposite side of the yard when the weatherman bolted from his door. “Should we go back for him?” Cameron asked. I thought for a moment, imagining Kyle in his last living moment: ‘You guys…go on…without…me.’ Gasp. “No,” I said to Cameron. “I’m sure he got away.” With that we continued toward Kyle’s house, where surely we’d meet him and laugh off the adrenaline. As we made our way down Kyle’s street, two headlights and a roaring engine appeared behind us. We booked it. The Dodge Charger squealed around the corner, and we ducked behind a short chain-link fence. Yep, the chase lasted just that long. If we had been smarter or less intimidated, we would have run in the opposite direction—or at least laughed at the weatherman’s polka-dot boxer shorts—instead of standing there, listening to his threats and instructions. When he finished, we found ourselves walking back to his house to clean up our own job. His car crept beside us, but soon we approached the unlit schoolyard and field. “All right,” I whispered to Cameron, moving my lips as little as possible. “When we get closer to the field, run into it. We’ll lose him there.” “Sir?” Cameron called to the weatherman. “Do you mind if we go across the field to get back to your house?” Okay, we weren’t the smartest criminals. Just moments ago we had sought invisibility behind a chain-link fence. But did Cameron just ask the man whose house we had vandalized if he minds that we make our getaway? “You boys will walk on the sidewalk where I can see you.” Cameron offered me a hopeful look: I tried. Any other ideas? When we reached the house I saw that we had done a damn good job. Streamers of the toilet paper once earmarked for Zimbabwe now flowed like veils over everything above ground: house, trees, mailbox, cars. We had done a good job, and now we would undo it. The clean-up effort took far longer than the hit itself, and with none of the pleasure. The weatherman stood on his porch, supervising every move until the last two-ply sheet was picked up. It must have been five a.m. before we were turned loose. As we walked back toward Kyle’s house, Kyle himself jogged up behind us. “Where have you been?” I asked. “Watching you guys.” “What?! You were there the whole time?” He nodded, grinned, and adjusted his glasses. “Behind a bush across the street.” “And you didn’t come help us? You’re an asshole.” I socked him on the shoulder. “Ow! Dude, you would’ve done the same thing!” He was right. But I socked him again, anyway. Another victim from our junior high school had to be Ronnie Smitts. It was simply inevitable. Like Tray Heidelman, Ronnie was not a mean kid, nor a nerdy kid, nor a jock. A little prim and possibly a mama’s boy, yes. And thus the other neighborhood boys zeroed in on their target. Three backyards from our own, Trevor Connelly’s backyard served as headquarters where we set up Tent City, a collection of three cheap tents, population: five. Trevor had introduced us to ice hockey the previous winter, so he, Cameron, and I had enormous duffel bags, each of which held 30 rolls of toilet paper and two cans of shaving cream, with room to spare. It was a massive arsenal that could envelop a 10-room mansion. Five boys, six cans of shaving cream, and 90 rolls of toilet paper. This was gonna be good. “Trevor!” called his father from inside the house. “C’mon in for a minute!” “Just a sec!” “No, now!” “All right! I’m coming!” He was back within two minutes. He ducked into Cameron’s and my five-person tent where everyone was gathered, sat on his sleeping bag, and brushed aside a lock of brown, stringy hair. “What’s up?” I asked, and zipped the door behind him. He spoke just above a whisper. “If he finds any houses in the neighborhood with toilet paper on them, I’m grounded.” “Shit,” whispered Cameron’s friend Steven. “How’d he find out?” “Someone left their duffel bag open.” I looked at my unzipped duffel bag. Toilet paper beamed white like underpants through unzipped jeans. “Damn it.” “My sister saw it and told on us,” Trevor said. “Good goin’, Mike,” Steven said. What the hell? I barely knew this kid—this younger kid—and there he was, ripping on me. But before I could respond: “We’re still gonna do it, right?” Cameron asked. Trevor simply exhaled. Ronnie Smitts’s house was exactly one block away. Trevor’s parents would have to have been drugged, blindfolded, and flown to Mars not to see the one house in the neighborhood that would soon attract attention like a fart in church. “Count me out,” said Tommy. He was three years younger (and ten years wiser) than the rest of us. Trevor finally answered, overlooking Tommy’s comment. “I don’t know.” “C’mon, man,” I said. “What else are we gonna do with 90 rolls of toilet paper?” “And six cans of shaving cream,” Cameron added. We looked around at each other’s prepubescent faces. “We should do it anyway,” Trevor finally said. I nodded. “Maybe they won’t find out.” “Maybe.” “You’re still out?” I asked Tommy, who was shuffling a deck of cards on his Flintstones sleeping bag. “Yeah. I don’t want to do it.” He pulled an ace from the deck and examined it. Trevor and I shrugged. Tommy was like our little brother. I already had a little brother, but Tommy was different. He was so small in stature, he was like everyone’s little brother, and we felt a need to protect him. If he didn’t want to go, that was fine. He dealt the cards, and we played Go Fish into the evening. The alarm on Trevor’s watch sounded, and at two a.m. we left Tommy behind and stole into the night—four boys, three duffel bags, and not an ounce of brains among us. We worked quickly, cocooning every inch of the house, the yard, the VW Beatle, the sapling. Someone later bragged about filling the mailbox with shaving cream. About an hour after we’d begun, the last sheet of toilet paper left the last roll. We zipped the duffel bags, stood on the sidewalk, and admired a beautiful, moonlit disaster. When Mr. Connelly’s voice penetrated our tent walls, it sounded pleasant, like he was inviting us in for waffles. He had allowed us to sleep till nine, which is early on Saturday when you’re 13. It’s especially early if you’ve been out decorating the neighborhood the night before. His expression, however, did not say waffles. He was escorting us into the house like new prison inmates when I stopped him. “Wait. Tommy didn’t do it. He didn’t come with us.” The others agreed. “Okay, Tommy, you can head home. The rest of you, c’mon.” Even from a block away the Smitts residence was a sight to behold. A very white sight. A light breeze carried a chill on the air, and the ends of dozens of toilet paper streamers fluttered like tiny banners. We approached and stopped at the end of the driveway. Trevor, Steven, Cameron, and I stood still, mouths agape as though Alyssa Milano had suddenly appeared on the Smitts’s porch. We spent the morning cleaning the yard, the trees, and of course the mailbox, while Mr. Smitts and Mr. Connelly micromanaged, pointing out flecks of dew-soaked paper stuck to leaves and decorative rock. As if spending Saturday morning cleaning toilet paper from a lawn weren’t enough, Trevor would be punished further, we knew, but the rest of us cleaned obediently, subserviently, silently hoping our parents wouldn’t be informed. “It’s not coming off,” Cameron said. That’s when we learned the chemical effect that shaving cream has on auto paint. He sprayed it with the garden hose, soaped it, scrubbed it with a rag, and there it was: a giant, light green smiley face on the hood of their forest green car. If this symbol of happiness were appropriate for the hood of any car, surely a VW Beetle was it. Mr. Smitts, however, didn’t seem to agree. To my dismay, I heard very little about the job after that, only that Dad had come to the monetary rescue again and had the Smitts’s hood repainted. Cameron and I were sentenced to two weeks: school, homework, chores, nothing else. And tent cities were thereafter forbidden. Looking back, that might have been our final childish endeavor, a last attempt to get away with something typically associated with kids. We were growing up, and soon we would have more mature means for expressing our stupidity. Like drinking. “TP” is excerpted from Nowhere Near Manhood, by Michael Mecherikoff, available at www.NowhereNearManhood.com. Copyright 2009 Bridge Light Books, Inc. Reprinted with permission.
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 Michael Mecherikoff | |
| About the author: | |
Michael Mecherikoff is a contributing writer for Cairn and author of Nowhere Near Manhood. Buy the book at www.NowhereNearManhood.com. | |
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