I could have called it a day after throwing a dead rat in a bag into my neighbor’s pool. I didn’t. I could have retired for the night when I finished sprinting away from the mailbox I had just filled with bottles of urine. I refused to. The night could have concluded after I exposed myself to passing cars. And it did.
All in a day, my friends, and what an action-packed day it was. I was roughly around the age 12, and by roughly I mean I could have been 15. Long-term pot use fogs a man’s memory. So I’m a skinny, sarcastic, prankster of a lad – between 12 and 15 – and I’m hanging out in the ol’ neighborhood with my pal Rodney. Rodney was a year younger than me but built like a steer on creatine, and just as witty as I.
I remember it to be a humid, summer afternoon. Rodney and I were spending some time at his house, jumping on the trampoline, comparing nipple hair length, and other homoerotic activities. All the jumping and suppressing of gay physical urges had us parched. We decided to get out of the heat and head indoors.
As we rounded the edge of Rod’s backyard and stepped onto his driveway we came across a dead rat lying on the pavement. The rat was quite large. A fat rat. Like when it took selfies for dating profiles I’m sure they were all face shots. A BBW. Pleasantly plump. However you want it put, the rat was big, and super dead at this point.
Rod and I stared at the bloated, roasting rodent for a good while. I looked in glued disgust, while Rod leered with aspiration. If I were a mind reader, I probably would have caught some sadistic thoughts running through his head at that moment. How can I be certain of this? The next thing out of his mouth finalized all suspicion.
“Let’s do something with it!” Rod suggested without the least hint of morality. “A dead rat,” I muttered. “What are we going to do with that?”
Repulsion rushed through me for a quick moment. I felt a bit sorry for Rodney, and worried for his mental well-being. What kind of kid is sick enough in the head to suggest having fun with a deceased animal? Although I considered his proclamation for a minute, and it began to make a lot of sense.
Why just throw away a perfectly good dead rat? I thought to myself. This steaming carcass, with its bursting inners and fractured skull, could and should be used for comedy greatness. Immediately the master plan hit me.
“We’re going to throw it in Ty’s pool,” I asserted menacingly. Rod giggled in agreement. Ty was our neighbor from just up the street. Nice kid, just a real piece of shit at times. He always felt the need to put us down around his parents, and lie to make himself seem like the ideal son. It was annoying, and for that he would soon receive a dead rat in his pool.
Before we could make our way up the street to Ty’s we had to figure out a way to carry the departed. I proposed scooping it up with a shovel. It seemed the most logical method of transport. Rod didn’t agree, luckily, for he had a tactic far more cunning.
“Let’s put it in a ziploc first,” he demanded. I didn’t quite understand where he was going with this idea at first. Perhaps he meant we would use the ziploc to carry it, and then remove the rat from the bag and toss it into the pool.
Rod dissolved my confusion. “We’ll just throw the whole bag in the pool with the rat in it,” he declared confidently. I realized his true genius after that statement.
By putting a dead rat inside a bag before throwing it in a pool you’re automatically cutting off all possible explanations but one. There are several causes when a dead rat is floating across your pool or resting in your drain. Maybe the rat’s dumb ass just happened to stroll into the water by accident. It’s very likely. But when there’s a ziploc bag drifting through your pool with a damn rat corpse inside of it there’s only one conclusion you can jump to: Some childish dick either killed a rat or found it dead, put it in a fresh-sealing bag, and then tossed it into your pool without giving a shit about authority, religion, or fuckin’ anything for that matter.
Rod and I succeeded in our jape, and we were oh so proud. We crept from a neighboring set of pine trees up to Ty’s back fence like we were about to rob a liquor store. I handed Rod my Motorola Razr (the most ballin’ phone of its time) and quietly instructed him to film me performing the hurl. I don’t have the phone anymore, unfortunately. I would love to relive the moment and watch as I glide to the edge of the fence, cock back my frail arm, and cannon launch that dead rat with the skill and strength of a long-retired shot put Olympian.
You can bet we skipped triumphantly away from the scene with swagger. The two of us laughed heartily all the way back to Rodney’s house. For Rod, that was enough mischief for one afternoon. For me, it was only the beginning of the day’s cut-up escapade.
I left Rod’s in route back home. As I sauntered down the driveway I glanced over at his neighbor’s home to left. It was a fairly new, ornate, and beautiful place. They, like Ty, had a gorgeous pool in the back. In the front, plants, trees, and shrubs of all sorts dwelled around the fountain in the center of their driveway. Yes, these folks had an immaculate stone fountain in the middle of their driveway. I refer to them as “these folks,” because I never knew who these people really were. I only knew but a few things: They were rich. They had a nice house. They had a fountain in their driveway. They were never kind to us or any of the neighborhood kids. Lastly, they had a gold mailbox.
On this particular day that gold mailbox was all they needed to push my wild ass over the edge. I knew I wanted to do something awful to the gaudy gold structure, but what? Smash it? Certainly not. I was a mere goofball, and that to me was outright vandalism. Shit in it? For a second the idea seemed brilliant. Ultimately that’s savage behavior and just plain gross, though. Then it struck me – bottles of urine!
Bottles of urine? Absolutely! Coincidentally I had been saving bottles of urine for quite some time. I initially peed into a Gatorade bottle out of desperation on a long car ride home from a soccer tournament. I took a liking to the thrill of peeing in a bottle, I suppose, and I continued doing it on occasion with no intelligible purpose.
Through this hobby I built up a decent collection of warm piss bottles, which I hid in my bedroom closet (where all the kids hide their disturbing shit.) Now, thanks to the gold mailbox, these wizz containers finally had a calling. I ran across the street and down the hill to my house as if cops were tailing me and I had a controlled substance on my person. Nothing could stand in the way of my elaborate (yes I said elaborate) prank.
I ran in and out of my house at rapid speed just in case my mom tried to hit me with a “What’s with the bottles of piss, Mike?” I didn’t need questions or any of that aggravation! I was a man on a mission.
I darted back up the hill (my backyard was an enormous hill) with 5 full piss bottles in my arms. As I crested the hill my eyes directly locked in on target. I goggled the gold mailbox, trembling with anticipation. The only thing separating me from my goal of justice was one lonely street. I dashed across it and stutter stepped up to the pillar box. I ripped it open, placed each hot phial of pee in, and slammed it shut. My work there had been done and it was time to make my escape.
There was one single destination in mind as I raced from the crime scene – The Fisher’s House. There were 5 Fisher kids, 3 boys, all of whom were my good friends. In any moment of trouble I knew their house was a safe place. That was mostly because the Fisher kids were the biggest trouble makers of all. Being unproductive, naughty, unremorseful, and unruly was almost expected in their home.
Anyway, I made it there without issue. Of course I began my stop-in by sharing with them the glorious events that had just taken place. Dead rat in a bag in Ty’s pool. Bottles of piss in the rich people’s mailbox. They were very aware of the remarkable mysteries I set in place. As expected, the Fisher boys were just as proud of me as I was.
The tales of my stunts riled the gang up, and they too wanted in on the antics. The Fishers’ idea of pranks usually consisted of standing at the end of their driveway, throwing small fruit at passing cars. The American Dream, essentially. The problem was we had already done this stupid charade so many times. Was it still fun? Yes. Were we a bunch of rowdy ignoramuses? Without a doubt. So we did it again.
There were were, a squad of privileged white deviants hiding behind pine trees with grapes and cranberries in our hands. A vehicle would speed by, we’d hop out and whip a grape, and then duck back behind our trees awaiting the sound of impact. While this was good fun, it wasn’t exactly doin’ it for me. I was on a quest of madness all afternoon. Hitting a speeding Sebring with cranberries wasn’t going to top urine and dead animals.
Needless to say I turned it up a notch. The boys and I drug a boombox and a big sheet of cardboard to the end of the driveway. We danced for the drivers who cruised through our street. Instead of smacking cars with produce we entertained them. 80s and 90s dance hits blared through the speakers as I pop lock n’ dropped it atop the cardboard dance floor. I was feeling the beat, loving the attention, and before I knew it my dick was out.
Indeed, the improv dance spectacle took a very dark turn. My friends cried with innocent laughter as I flapped my weiner at passing cars. Granted it was dark. It was extremely dark out, you guys. I want that noted. None of the drivers actually saw my terrible, 12 to 15-year old penis. They may have been exposed to the scenario. I’m sure a few folks glanced over and had a general idea of what was going on. However, nobody really saw the horrid display in clear vision.
I beg all of you to bear in mind that I was 12 at the time. Possibly 13, or even 14. Regardless, I was a boy who didn’t know any better. I thought throwing rodent corpses into my neighbor’s pool was acceptable. I didn’t see anything wrong with putting bottles of urine in somebody’s mailbox. Exposing yourself to cars as techno plays was merely A&E in my book. I was just a boy.
If I absolutely must, I’ll admit I knew damn well those things were wrong. Why else would I have been doing them? I, like most young kids, got pleasure out of being a prankster. I never approached any situation with the intent to harm. I never aimed to be physically hurtful or mean. I just got a kick out of acting like an ass. As I typed that last sentence I came to the realization that things haven’t really changed. I still get a kick out of being goofy. I’ve moved past the urine, messing with cars, and whipping my johnson out. Of course I’m beyond that. Despite this, I’m still always down for some good old fashioned horsin’ around! As an open clown I couldn’t help but reminisce about my most mischievous of days through writing. I’ve done my share of outlandish exhibitions, but no act will ever match the collective misconduct on that day when I was 12 or 15.