As we meandered through the park, watching out for both impending hazards and any “evidence of enemy invasion,” we came upon a replica salt works which we were exploring when suddenly, I felt a quick tug on my shoulder followed by an emphatic “Shhhhhhhhhhh!” plunged deep into my eardrum,
“Quiet, Jimmyrocket, do you see that!?” Mary Ellen was pointing toward something beyond the salt works’ large wooden vats and copper boilers and toward the front gate, where I, too, saw the pulsating glow of a flashlight, sweeping back and forth along the front border of the park. Neither of us were a thousand percent sure what the hell we were seeing, both of us trying to unclog our collectively clogged heads to get a better look.
That’s when we heard the unmistakable crackle of a walkie-talkie. We froze. This sounded awfully real, sky-high or stone-cold sober. Mary Ellen knew what to do, letting out her high-pitched shriek of warning, and I gotta admit, she nailed it, sounding more like a wounded alleycat than bird of prey, but a solid effort nonetheless.
The others heeded the warning, and the woods returned to its nightly symphony of crickets and critters. We slowly crawled closer to get a better look and listen, careful to keep our mouths shut and heads low.
Crackle, crackle, crackle...
“Patrol 409, this 401-fiver, over.” Deep male voice.
More crackles…
“I got ya, 1-fiver, come in, over.” High-pitched voices could be male or female.
“Helen (ok, it’s a female), I’m over here off Perry Ave checking out The Trading Post. Found a six-pack of unopened beer cans right by the front gate. It seems kinda odd so I’m gonna take a look-see.”
“Roger that. Standing by, 401-fiver, over.”
“Sheeee-it…” I murmured over to Mary Ellen, as we were both on all fours crawling, “which freakin’ idiot left the beer there?!”
“Gee, lemme guess?!”
We both knew.
Then 401-fiver’s flashlight started to scan back and forth along both sides of the gated entrance and deeper into the park area, which was now alive with our best facsimile of bird calls. From our vantage point we could see his silhouette pacing around the entrance and jiggling on the handle. We could then hear him call for backup as he maneuvered around the entryway, just as we had, then walk forward into the museum grounds, his flashlight casting an array of bobbing shadows as he did, the trading post now aglow in pulsating color.
That’s when we saw a second patrol car pull up and park next to the first. Thankfully, from what we could make out they were some kind of a private security company, four-door gold sedans, with unidentifiable black, stenciled lettering on the side and obnoxiously yellow flashing lights.
And just as The Stick foretold:
The invaders had arrived. Pirates! We were certain!
And we were prepared.
Ok, so now might be a good time to mention the traps we set….
Never intending to actually harm or injure anyone mind you, nevertheless we thought it might be wise to set traps for protection against the onslaught of infiltrating savages or any other unauthorized trespassers who chose to invade OUR woods.
Stunningly, as it turned out, Stevie Bird actually knew quite a bit about various types of rope knots and trap setting from his five years in the Boys Scouts, his uniform at home apparently well-decorated with triumphant buttons and ribbons, that is if we were believin’ him. But he commenced to prove it, and soon under his directions we had constructed some “basic” trips and traps around our stronghold and other strategic areas of the park. Hey, we ain’t your everyday colonists!
Then we heard someone call out perhaps through a megaphone: “Whoever’s in there... you have broken the law and trespassed. Come out right now, or we’ll turn this over to the police and have you arrested!” We weren’t overly worried.
But when Mary Ellen swore with a trembling voice that she had just seen the moonlight’s reflection off a gun’s barrel pressed up against one of their flashlights, we became worried, and fast!
“Jesus H., Mary Ellen, are you sure?! No way in hell they have guns! Right?”
“I’m sure of it, Jimmyrocket, I caught a good look, and it wasn’t his flashlight that was a ggguuunnn. I swear it was!” She finished the sentence suddenly sounding cold sober while gasping for air.
“I got one thing to say” I replied softly but urgently as hell, to no one in particular, barely spitting the word out of my mouth...
“RETREAT!”
My immediate thoughts were: What the hell did we get ourselves into? Were the others aware and retreating too? And…Was any of this really happening?
Mary Ellen’s sharp slap on the back of my head reminded me that it was.
“Ouch, Mary Ellen, that hurt,” I whispered. “Take it easy, will ya? You’re killin’ me here!”
Then she smacked me again for talking too loud.
And for the first time that night, perhaps because the recent proceedings had largely sobered me up as well, I started thinking about getting caught. More specifically, the consequences of getting caught. We could get caught by security. By the police. Or worse yet, By our parents: three decidedly poor options!
We hustled back to the wetu mostly unscathed and more importantly, undetected, with everyone present and accounted for—the only apparent war wound being a sizable scratch under Stevie’s right eye, presumably from face walking into something—but Stevie did that all the time anyway.
Fortunately, everyone held to the necessity of staying quiet, despite our adrenalin pumping at record levels. As we listened, we could still hear the static-laced chitter-chatter coming from the security patrol’s walkie-talkies. When we stealthily stuck our heads out past the blanket-covered entrance, off in the distance we could see their flashlights penetrating deeper into the park.
Damn-it-all! It looked as if they were heading directly toward us! Perhaps we hadn’t been quite as stealth as we thought.
When we saw the addition of blue-flashing-lights in the parking lot, a game changer of unimaginable and TOTALLY humongous proportions, we decided hiding was now our best option. Each of us scrambled for the best and most-remote place we could possibly find.
It was scary and hysterically funny all at the same time. It was a scene which might have better befit an episode of F-Troop or the Three Stooges, than “The Break-In at Aptucxet Trading Post.”
Picture a jumbled but stealthy prismatic of scattering teens, busily crawling, ducking, covering, cowering, this way and that while simultaneously freaking out.
Kids were hiding everywhere
and
