TP and rites of passage

Today was a first: we got toilet papered for the first time ever. They did a respectable job, although I've seen - heck, I've done - better. It was clearly Kevin's good friend from down the street. Kevin had been playing over at his house, and we collected him to go out to dinner, and when we got back from dinner, voila:

Yes, they - Kevin's friend and the friend's friend - tp'd our house in broad daylight. And asked their mom for permission first! (She gave the green light; I totally respect this.) Times, they have changed.

I partook in my first toilet papering escapade when I was eleven. I was sleeping over at my best friend Sherry Beckner's house. We decided that we were going to tp this boy's house down the block from her. Only there was no question about asking for permission! I think half the fun was the risk involved in doing it without getting caught. We made elaborate plans on how we would sneak out of her house in the middle of the night after we were sure her parents were asleep. She lived in a two-story house, and we decided that the best way to sneak out of the house would be via the laundry chute in the upstairs bathroom that led to the garage where their washer and dryer were. Why we didn't just sneak down the stairs and out the door, I have no idea. I suppose, at eleven, sneaking out through the laundry chute must have seemed way more clever and stealthy. We did a few practice runs when her parents were otherwise occupied, and then we waited for them to go to sleep.

We made it out of the house safely, and high on adrenaline at a successful escape in the middle of the night (!!), we pranced down the street and covered the boy's yard in rolls and rolls of toilet paper. I recall being very proud of our work. Then we headed back to Sherry's house.

We managed to let ourselves back into the garage, and not quietly. (I doubt we planned to reenter the house through the laundry chute - that would have been impossible. What were we thinking?) And there, on the cold cement floor stood Sherry's father, in his underwear, with a gun pointed at us. I shit you not. He heard the ruckus we had apparently made getting back into the garage and thought it was an intruder. I can still see the image of him standing there in his tighty-whities - my god! My best friend's father! In his underwear! I think that might have horrified me more than the gun.

Needless to say, he was not happy with us. And we were made to go clean up the boy's yard very early the next morning, before he or his family ever got to experience the glory of Sherry's and my work. Which definitely took all the fun out of it.

I wonder if Sherry's dad ever told my parents what we had done. I kind of doubt it; if my parents had gotten wind of my doing something like that, there would have been hell to pay, and I don't recall ever hearing a word about it.

Ahhh, good times.