I saw lights flick on in neighboring cottages as I tore across the street and flew through a darkened side yard with Dereck hustling right behind me. We headed for a little-known narrow, seagrass-obscured path leading to the shore, and presumably, safety. The plan was to rendezvous back behind the clubhouse. (Yeah, that’ll fool ’em.) We’d meet at the tall hedges adjacent to the men’s room. (Heavy, bright blue wooden door, outdoor shower head right next to it, nothing fancy, but wet, and in later years a fun place to kiss girls.)
We made it back undetected, and could only hope our comrades did as well, except of course for Ken, whom we hoped kept on running until he reached home, and a tomato juice bath (or whatever else might work!).
“Hey, man, that was totally awesome!” Dereck, normally a fairly reserved kid, loud-whispered through a noticeable grin as we hit the beach and stooped down behind a rise of sand and barrier of grass as we attempted to hide. “I think we’re safe!” he said.
“Ya, no worries. We were out of there like lightning. I got two really good slams on that door,” I bragged. “Did you hear that old guy shouting? What a hoot.”
“I bet it’ll take him all night to get back to sleep!” Dereck chortled. “Ok, let’s lay low for a bit and then we can circle back to The Club.”
Fifteen minutes later Derek and I arrived at the designated rendezvous spot (after one ceremonious lap around “Victim #1’s” cottage). Back at The Club we found all three older kids, Tony Dupré, Adrian Best, and Howie Kauffman, sporting shit-eating grins. Within moments we were joined by my sister Alison and Mary Ellen and a growing contingent of onlookers and wannabe mischief-makers, anxious to hear our war stories. (Ok, they were bored.)
After glancing around to take a quick headcount, Rick the Stick declared the mission, “Utterly Successful Dudes!” then added, “With two non-lethal casualties, Ken Flaherty who’s currently off in search of a liter of perfume, and presumably, Mashnee’s first skunk astronaut, Señor Le Pew.”
Man. What fun!
We spent the next hour so far past curfew we were all in trouble, and the entire next day, maybe longer, telling our tallest ninja warrior tales: who knocked the loudest, who slammed the most times, who was most stealthy, who dodged a lethal branch to the eye or jumped a hot stinking pile of backyard dog shit as they made their escape, who ran fastest, jumped highest, knocked the best, or avoided poison ivy, and most importantly, who wants to do this again?
“Meeeeeeeeeeeee!”
And so began our sordid lives of crime…
Chapter 18
Chaos
The mischief of summer 1968 continued. A week later, our crew was fortified with the solid addition of Patrick and Ken Flaherty’s cousin from back home, Owen. Owen’s folks had rented the cottage directly next door to the Flaherty’s for three weeks. Owen seemed like a cool kid, he was funny, laid back, and purportedly as game for mischief as the rest of us. Owen was a good-looking kid, a bit heavy but not fat by any means, merely carrying an extra “jelly” roll around his midsection, something Patrick and Ken relentlessly teased him about, followed by periodic jabs to his midsection.
I also noticed, as the self-appointed observer of all things Mashnee, that Owen dressed nicer than the rest of us. Considerably. While most of us wore a fairly raggedy assortment of old tie-dyed t-shirts and torn blue-jean shorts finished with fringe, attire considered ideal for impromptu activities including spontaneously jumping in the ocean, falling in the dirt, pushing each other of a cliff, and that sort of thing. Owen dressed as if he anticipated an invitation for an afternoon of fine wine and yachting (right alongside Adrian Best!).
For example, he had newer-looking bright-colored checked shorts that were definitely not found at Marshalls (Believe me, I knew the inventory, my mom practically lived there.), which he wore with a partially buttoned, neatly tucked, solid-blue collared shirt. Like, for going out fancy. And to finish the outfit in true nautical style, he wore leather boat shoes (BOAT SHOES!!) with fresh-looking cowhide laces. Although Owen was immediately schooled about what was acceptable Mashnee footwear (none!), he continued to wear the boat shoes anyway, a mistake which would cost him dearly.
Perhaps feeling buoyed by our fortified numbers, or perhaps just antsy from boredom and feeling our young oats, that night’s conversation quickly turned to the internationally acclaimed, dark-and-daring, death-defying high-wire act known throughout the Mashnee Universe as, ROOF stomping (not to be confused with DOOR knocking!)!
And
It.
Was.
Time!
We strategized all week about how we would pull this off, then waited for the perfect night (Wednesdays being ill advised, as the pungent scent of the Weenie Roast traveled all the way to Hog Island attracting droves of them) to begin the caper.
It came that Friday, a particularly dark and foggy evening, custom made for mischief. Better still, we all had later curfews on the weekends, Friday nights included. It was also a prime night to target unaware renters who remained blissfully oblivious to the adolescent idiocy inherent in Mashnee rites of passage as they prepped for Saturday morning departures. (Checkout by 10:00 a.m., absolutely no exceptions!, according to Mr. Reginald G. Knight, Senior, FBO Mashnee Village Rental Agreement.)
Our sinister lineup of nighttime no-gooders was impressive, and featured the fearsome fivesome: me, Rick the Stick, Stevie Bird, Patrick, and (the still vaguely pungent) Ken Flaherty, plus the addition of “Cousin Owen” (which was exactly what we called him). The only ones missing were the Shifter brothers, rumored to have been punished by their dad for some minor infraction, likely an instantly regrettable cuss or misplacement of a tool or something else NBD (no big deal).
Thinking ahead and obviously feeling a little too good about ourselves, we had all agreed to wear dark t-shirts for cover, along with our darkest-colored shorts. Total stealth! Thinking back, we must have looked as suspicious as hell, even to the uninformed. But we felt cool and that was all that mattered. I did note, just because I noticed stuff, Owen’s lack of conformity to the prescribed dress code, including boat shoes. Not my problem, right? There were obviously too many of us to be on the same roof without turning this into a Three Stooges episode (Stick’s line not mine), so we decided to double-down, divvy-up, and really go-for-it by roof stomping on two houses! A double-header. Fun? Right?
We already had the two cottages strategically picked out, and waited as late into the night as possible to launch our raids. At which point Stick took charge and divided us up into two groups of “Eagle-Eye Squadrons” (don’t even ask). “Squadron One” would consist of Rick, Stevie, and Ken Flaherty, leaving “Squadron Two” to me, Patrick Flaherty, and Cousin Owen. Fine. Mary Ellen didn’t count as a squadron member, but she was there to witness the antics.
Nobody bothered arguing with the plan, knowing that not only was it useless when dealing with Sir Stick, but it was potentially painful, considering the sheer length of his octopus arms. We were summoned together, then all at once we piled our hands one on top of another, then broke huddle with a cleverly impromptu cheer of “Leeeeet’s Stomp!” or something like that.
When we arrived at our target, it was decided it would be best with me and Owen (despite his improper traction) on the roof, and big Patrick as designated lifter, catcher, and bodyguard, while over at Squadron One’s target, a cookie-cutter, weathered, gray cottage trimmed in navy blue exactly four doors down. Ken and Stevie drew roof duty, with The Stick, controlling the ground.
At this point, our well-rehearsed synchronized timing would be essential.
We had all managed to work our way undiscovered into the backyards of our respective targets. Each team was equipped with a stopwatch, both set for precisely ten minutes, so as to coordinate the (hopefully) simultaneous strikes. The idea being at the zero-hour the roof climbers would move into position (a feat accomplished, with any luck, quietly!) and once signaled—we had quite the sophisticated communication system consisting of two flash lights, a cigarette lighter, and the good judgment of the real brains of this operation: Mary Ellen Kramer.
“Hey, Jimmyrocket,” came a whispered voice of instruction from Patrick, as the three commandos quietly huddled together near the rubbish-room door, adjacent to the low point of the back roof, and in this case, the point of entry,
“You’re the quietest, so I’ll give you ten fingers first then you wait by the chimney for Cousin Owen, Ok?” Patrick, now moving into optimum lift-off position, instructed us.
“Owen, you dumb spaz,” Patrick spat, “move away from that freakin’ window before you get all of us busted.” Then turning toward me, he quietly added, “Did I remember to tell ya he comes from the dipshit side of the family?” A little friendly cousin-jabbing emerged just as Owen scooted himself into a much more stealthy position.
“Ok, guys… We good?”
“Good!”
We were currently in sixty-seconds-till-launch countdown mode. There were at least two lights on in the house, one in the kitchen and one in the front bedroom, so we probably wouldn’t gain the advantage of catching everyone in the house asleep. Clearly we’d have to accelerate our rate of escape accordingly. This represented a potential hazard that I, as the team’s observer, (a quickly evolving role), had duly noted.
The roof at its lowest point of entry was probably eight feet high, so assistance would definitely be needed.
“Ok, Stooges, it’s go time!” commanded Patrick in an elevated whisper.
“Jimmyrocket, get over here,” he demanded, and with that he extended his rather large hands (better for hoisting I hoped) into a cat’s cradle, and my foot was in and out of it fast with momentum. He catapulted me toward the roof’s edge, which I grabbed and used to jettison myself onto the main part of the roof. I managed to scrape my knee in the process, but the trickle of blood—a war wound—only added to the adventure.
The important part was that I was up, Owen was heading up, and so far nobody had been killed, arrested, or had fallen off the roof. Good start.
