Here I Thought I Was Normal: Micro Memoirs of Mischief

by Mr. Frank Rocco Satullo

  I leaped from my speeding bike and sprinted after him. He ran around to the back of his house, opened and closed the screen door behind him and locked it. When I got there, just steps behind, I smacked into the closed door, stopped and glared at him through the screen. He felt safe enough to make cocky faces at me and mouth off. He used cuss words and smirked the whole time.

  There was no way this injustice was going unpunished in my mind. So, I did the unthinkable. I smashed through the screen door. Actually, I ripped the metal frame from the wall as I came through the screen. My adrenaline was in overdrive. His shock immobilized him. I knocked him down and pounded him furiously right there inside his home. Just like any neighborhood fight, kids came from everywhere to check it out. When I exited the house, laser eyed and bloody knuckled, people were unusually quiet as opposed to the mob-mentality cheers that usually accompanied such occasions.

  I walked casually to the street, asked Linda if she was okay and rode bikes home, together.

  Snow Shoveling

  It was the day after a blizzard – time to make some scratch.

  Just after breakfast, the gang received the relay call. Bundled up and raring to go, we hit the streets with our shovels. Door-to-door, we knocked out driveway after driveway at about five to ten bucks a pop.

  We headed back to my house for warmth and lunch. On the way, we crossed paths with the competition. A snowball fight ensued.

  The doorway pooled with the melted, dark, gray slush from our boots. Our socks hung in front of every heater we had in the kitchen, dining and family room. Grilled cheese and hot cocoa never tasted better.

  Recuperated, we trudged out into the great white again, shovels over shoulders.

  “No-no-no-YES-no-no-no thanks,” pretty much summed up the afternoon.

  It was approaching dinnertime and we were determined to get one more “yes” before calling it a day …and before frost-bite set-in.

  We ventured down a street we normally didn’t travel on and found a nice long driveway still buried in fluff that was almost waist-high. This was a ten dollar job. The house was behind the garage, a peculiar set-up. A middle-aged woman opened the door. She gave us the creeps. Age had not been kind to her. But, she smiled, strangely, and said we could shovel her drive. We set the price and went to work.

  This job nearly killed us. It was the deepest snow of the day because of a drift. It was also the tail end of our grueling labors. We were tired, aching and oh so cold! It was difficult to feel our fingers and toes. We were anxious to finish.

  The apron of the driveway was particularly tough. The snow there was higher than the rest. Actually, it was more of a hardened sludge, compliments of the snow plow. We muscled our way through and collapsed on our backs when we finished.

  It was time to get paid and go home. We were whipped but smiling.

  We went around the garage to the front of the house. It took some determined knocking before the woman finally came to the door. She seemed angry at our incessant pounding but we weren’t going anywhere, we knew she was home. In short, she snarled that she didn’t know who the hell we were or what we were talking about.

  All of the pleading in the world wasn’t going to change things. We got ripped off.

  Defeated, we backed off the porch and down the steps. The door slammed and we heard a cackle inside. She sounded like a witch.

  We rounded the garage and saw the streetlight illuminate a perfectly shoveled drive. Then, out of the blue, we mustered an unexpected energy. Justice had to be served. Dinner was calling and we weren’t coming. We had more work to do. For some reason, cold and fatigue were gone. We buried that driveway in the snow that we had previously removed and then added more snow from elsewhere. This wasn’t your fresh fallen snow, it was packed!

  Days later, even the competition couldn’t chisel away our concrete-like concoction.

  Ski Jogging

  One of our favorite winter activities we enjoyed while growing up was what we called “ski jogging.”

  Once the snow fell, we’d walk the streets, lingering around stop signs when cars would come to a complete stop. Then, at the drop of a dime, a couple of us would break from the pack, ducking and twisting behind the stopped vehicle. In a crouched position, gloved hands clinging to the underside of the back bumper, we’d brace for the ride to begin.

  The car, seconds later, would kick snow back at us from under the rear tires as it searched for traction. It was hard not to smile. Often, slush would spray me while my mouth was wide open as I grinned at my ride partner. As the car picked up speed, our boots became skis and we’d glide across the snow packed roads for a block or two. Sometimes we’d wipe out and fly off to the side of the road or up onto a snow-covered lawn. Other times, we’d just let go to reduce the distance to get back to the pack. It was key to have a couple people remain walking so that drivers wouldn’t wonder where everyone went ...unless a driver stopped and said for EVERYBODY to get on. This happened from time to time.

  One time we all got an offer to ski jog at once. An old car pulled up and the guy rolled his window down and exuberantly offered for us to grab on. There were six of us. It was difficult to get everybody squeezed in behind the vehicle but we did.

  We clutched the bumper and yelled, “Go!”

  Well, he must have really wanted to give us a good run because he spun those tires and lurched forward and, apparently, never looked back. Had he looked back, he’d have seen six kids still in a crouched position with his rear bumper in their hands.

  The only time we’d ever get injured doing this stunt was when the roads had bare spots. There was nothing worse than cruising in packed or powdery snow and unexpectedly hitting pavement. Fortunately, bare spots were usually just that – spots. It would be just enough to throw off your center of gravity but before you lost your footing, you were past the bare spot and could recover. Otherwise, you’d tumble into a ditch.

  When we grew older, there were kids in the neighborhood – older brothers of friends – who had just gotten drivers licenses. Someone concocted the idea of actually skiing from the back of a station wagon. I went for a ride. Kneeling and looking out of the back window, my job was to keep an eye out for other cars, especially cop cars. If I spotted one, I’d give the two skiers a signal, they’d let go and I’d reel in one rope while a friend reeled in the other. The two skiers would coast to a stop, shove the skis under snow and just act like they were chatting with each other.

  It worked like a charm except for one time.

  When we gave the signal, one guy aborted as planned but, the other was stuck. His sleeve, glove or something was snagged or frozen to the rope. We never quite figured out why he couldn’t shake loose. He became frantic, lost his balance when he hit a pile of snow someone had shoveled from their driveway and resembled an old TV skiing clip, aptly named, the “agony of defeat.” His body tumbled in a dust of snow and then was dragged, sometimes catching a bit of air as he hit other random piles of snow.

  This all transpired in the seconds it took to yell for the driver to stop.

  And that was a split second before another yelled, “Cop!”

  So the car didn’t stop.

  The driver panicked and sped up and around a corner he went. The increased momentum turning the corner – car fishtailing – broke the poor skier free but his body was flung into a bunch of bushes lining the front of a house on the corner. He disappeared into them and we disappeared around the block.

  When we came back for the rescue, we had to stop, run up to the bushes and fish this poor soul out. He was cut up pretty badly but otherwise okay.

  I don’t remember ever seeing anyone skiing from the back of a moving vehicle again. Ski jogging, on the other hand …

  Streaking

  Streaking was a pop culture fad. This involved public nakedness. We had seen it happen spontaneously during professional sporting events or shown in a newspaper or on the evening news, albeit censored. It was a craze to say the least.

/>   On our street we were gathered at a friend’s house, bored, on a hot summer day. Nobody had central air conditioning in their houses at this time that I was aware of. We had had our fun with the hose and now just laid in the shade, dripping, wondering what to do next.

  “Hey Rocky, I dare you to ride your bike two houses down, naked,” challenged a friend.

  “If I do, you do three houses,” I immediately volleyed back.

  There was a pause.

  “Deal but we keep going until someone gives,” he said, cock sure of himself.

  Everyone was on their feet, excited as hell and so the challenge began.

  I rode first to the roaring approval of everyone. Mind you it was broad daylight. My friend went next and did three houses but hammed it up on his bike putting both feet on one pedal as he coasted by sticking his ass out at us like he was mooning which was funny because he was stark naked. I tried to out-do his ride. A car passed me beeping like mad. It sounded like approval but I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t see the people inside.

  Eventually, my friend rode half the street and I said he won. He seemed very pleased. Actually, we all were. It was a rollicking good time. In fact, we decided to move the streaking to the football field behind Learwood Junior High School. We ditched our bikes, broke into the concession stand through one of the plywood covered windows. Then we jimmied the trap door loose (we did this all the time) to get to the upper, open levels. On the third deck up, everyone stripped down to their birthday suits. We ran around jumping from floor to floor, exhilarated.

  This gave way to naked racing across the football field. That’s when someone noticed the door to the field house was cracked open. This was a metal pole barn where all of the track and field equipment was stored. There were mountains of thick pillow-like mats for the high jump and other pads and things. We made a mini indoor obstacle course that started with a naked “Nestea plunge” into the mats, a couple of hurdles, etc. Jacob racked his nuts really bad on the hurdles and was near tears.

  We kept going, saying, “shake it off,” laughing like crazy.

  Our lookout, peeking through the partially open door, sounded a warning.

  “Somebody’s coming!”

  We hid up high – all of us.

  The big sliding door was pushed open by a man. He started rummaging for something. Before he even spotted us we panicked in what appeared to be in unison, the chain reaction was so quick!

  “Geronimo!”

  “Look out below!”

  One by one, we plunged to the multi-layered stack of cushions we had created out of big puffy mats. Bouncing and rolling before sprinting out the door – buck naked – we passed this man. He was just plain stunned, paralyzed by shock, I presumed.

  We streaked 50 or more yards, downfield, to the field house to retrieve our clothes. That’s when Kyle directed us to get over the fence to our bicycles. He scaled the flights of steps to retrieve everyone’s stuff. Scaling the fence, naked, was pretty risky business. It wasn’t a normal chain-link fence, it was a tall one meant to keep trespassers out.

  Clothes rained down but only half fell on our side of the fence.

  Once Kyle got down and whipped the clothes and shoes that didn’t make it over, over to us, we rapidly dressed, looking around for the man. He was still motionless, but now he stood just outside the pole barn. He was too far to read anything else into it except that we could take our time now and catch our breath. So we did.

  That’s the only time (or day) we streaked. I can’t say the same for shooting the moon!

  Pleasure Attic

  I was walking home after school. Another classmate, Todd, walked with me. I didn’t really know what to make of him. Although he was in my grade, he was nearly two years older than me. I was young for my grade and he, well, was on his second tour of duty.

  He asked me if I wanted to come over to his house.

  I was a latchkey kid and had nothing better to do so I said, “Sure.”

  It would be another hour or so before my mom and dad would get home. My sister had a babysitter. I didn’t. It saved my parents money.

  Todd’s mom wasn’t home and neither was his older brother.

  Although it was nice outside, he invited me in, saying, “Want to see something really cool?”

  He grinned, ran upstairs and opened a closet door at the end of the hall. He removed a shelf and popped out a panel (tiny door) in the back of the closet gaining access to a crawl space.

  He looked back at me and said, “You can’t tell anyone about this.”

  “I’m not a narc,” I said and crawled in after him, curious.

  He fumbled around in the dark feeling for something. Then, he held up a hand and flicked a lighter until the sparks turned to flame. He slowly lowered it to light a candle sitting on a saucer.

  “Watch yourself so you don’t fall through. Stay on the path here and follow me,” he directed.

  Along the way, he lit more candles leaving a trail of light. We must have backtracked next to the hallway, the length of the bungalow home. The roof was angled over our tight crawl space until we reached a cubbyhole area. It was wider and the slanted ceiling extended higher. There was plenty of room to sit upright. Todd lit a circle of candles.

  “This is cool isn’t it?” he asked.

  I assured him it was. I had never seen anything like it. The secrecy, adventure and mystery all appealed to my thrill-seeking spirit.

  “My brother can’t know we were here so don’t tell anyone. He won’t notice if we sneak some of his stash though. Don’t tell anyone about this either,” Todd said.

  I didn’t know what he was talking about. I was too busy checking out the nude magazines stacked in in the corners of the lair. I don’t know why, but the set-up and placement of the magazines made me think of a waiting room at a doctor’s office.

  “Beer or pot?”

  My eyes bulged and I broke into an instant sweat. Maybe it was because we were in the attic or maybe it was because I was staring at the two choices he had displayed in front of me. I thought this wasn’t so cool after all. I wanted out. I wondered how to get out of there without freaking him out.

  I certainly wasn’t going to do drugs so pot was out of the question.

  “Beer,” I answered.

  He handed me one and popped the top on his. They were warm to the touch but I didn’t know enough to know they should be chilled. I don’t think he did either. I did know that I couldn’t drink beer any more than I could smoke a joint.

  “Beer makes me want to pee,” I ad-libbed, yet to open the beer he handed me.

  He laughed and said, “Aint that the truth.”

  I told him, “Really, I gotta take a leak.”

  He looked frustrated with me, “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

  I told him I’d be quick and that I knew the way down, no problem. “Be back in a flash.”

  “I’m drinking yours if you’re not,” he yelled my way as I crawled around the corner, squinting my eyes when I returned to daylight.

  I made a bee line for the door and never looked back.

  The Paper Route

  As we walked home from school, I saw a lady by a parked car and noticed that she was asking kids questions as they walked by her. When we stopped, she didn’t pay any attention to me. She sized up Jacob and asked if he would like to deliver newspapers. Jacob said no.

  I waited for her to look at me, but she looked past – rather over – me to the next group nearing. So I spoke up and said I wanted to do it. After confirming I was old enough and running through a list of other questions, she reluctantly gave me the job. Probably, by this time, she noticed no other prospects were headed her way.

  She met with my parents later.

  Before delivering the afternoon paper, I had to shadow the carriers giving up the route. My territory combined what two brothers used to cover.

  Weekday papers were light. I could fit them all in my paper-bag which I wore over one shoulder. Unlike
the movies, I had to walk each newspaper to the door of every house. On Sundays, I’d have to stuff parts of the paper together, load a wagon and deliver what was more like a pile of telephone books. Not only that but Sunday subscribers far outnumbered daily subscribers.

  Getting my wagon through snowy streets was the worst. Delivering in rain was second worst. That said, there were plenty of other bad – and some not so bad – encounters over time.

  Back in those days, the paperboy had to collect. That meant going door-to-door to get your customers to pay up for their subscription. Some went easy and some were delinquent as hell. On my very first round of collecting, a nasty old man dropped every curse word in the book on me when I came to his door. He screamed in my face so long and hard, if I had a nickel for every time he lobbed the “F” word, I could’ve retired on the spot. I reported the incident to my lady supervisor and he was taken off my route.