On occasion, back in high school, we got up to some pranking hi-jinks. For some reason, most of these pranks focused on one person: our friend Ziggy. Probably because he had this tendency of overreacting to anything that was done to him. In our own, sadistic way, we were teaching him important lessons about life.
For instance, never trust friends who know how to work on cars. Also, that car chases in residential neighborhoods are extremely entertaining, but can wreck your suspension. Though that one was probably one that we all learned.
For April Fool’s Day my junior year, my friend Christie had a wonderful idea. Actually, it might have been someone else’s brain child, but Christie was most definitely a key player. She had dated Ziggy for awhile the year before, and as such possessed the intrinsic knowledge that all girlfriends learn in the course of a relationship: how to well and truly piss the guy off. She also thought it would be funny. And I think it would have been funny, but in the process of planning this April Fool’s Day prank, we forgot one key detail: never let too many people in on the plan.
Now, mind you, we had to let some folks in on the plan, specifically Derek, who we’ve postulated could probably build a computer out of duct tape and paper clips if he was amped up enough of sugar and caffeine. Derek also knows how to work on cars. He had two MG’s in high school, which he basically rebuilt himself, though they sometimes required the persuasion of a sock covered hammer on their engines to work. Derek would be the one to pull it off.
We removed Ziggy’s spark plugs.
We had been assured that this would cause no damage to his car itself, but relished the idea of Ziggy, after a long afternoon working in the theater, trying to turn on his car and having absolutely no idea why it wouldn’t work.
The trouble was, someone let Ziggy in on the plan.
Christie and I were sitting calmly chatting in the theater office, when in stormed Ziggy. He promptly threw Christie up against the wall and demanded his spark plugs back.
For some reason, probably again because they had once dated, he assumed she was behind it all.
“Calm down,” I told him, and lead him into the make-up room to Derek’s cubby. “They’re in there.”
So Ziggy’s spark plugs were replaced without us ever experiencing the joys of the look on Ziggy’s face when his car wouldn’t start. Unfortunately, as a side effect, we also weren’t anywhere near the vicinity to witness what would have truly been a remarkable expression: the look on Ziggy’s face when his car blew up a week later.
We’ve been assured that it probably didn’t have anything to do with the spark plugs. Something in Ziggy’s engine was leaking where it shouldn’t have been, and ignited.
Derek was actually working on the thing at the time, in the road in front of Ziggy’s house. The only survivors of the fire were Derek and Ziggy, who were standing well back at the time, the frame of Ziggy’s car, and, mysteriously, half of Derek’s banana slurpie which was sitting on top of the Volvo when it ignited.
I’m told that, while they were watching the car burn and waiting for the fire department to arrive, someone drove past. Then turned around at the end of the road and drove past again.
“Um,” the man said, leaning out the window. “Your car’s on fire.”
Amazing, the observation powers of the common man.
Sometime later, when Ziggy had significantly recovered from the tragedy of the carbequed Volvo (approximately a year, I think), another prank war began.
I have no idea how it started, or who started it, but it was truly a prank war to see, splitting our group of friends right down the middle, boys vs girls.
It was my friend Mehri who came up with the penultimate prank. Ziggy once again got wind of the plans (I guess we were all incorrigible braggarts in high school), and threatened that if anything happened to his property, Mehri would find her family’s brand new swimming pool full of kool-aid.
Needless to say, we had to get him.
The plan was this: all of the girls would have a sleep over at Mehri’s house. During the night, we would climb into two cars, armed with walkie-talkies (this was before we all got cells), drive around to various boy’s houses, tp their mailboxes, and write cheerful messages to them in sidewalk chalk on their driveways. Over all, it was very juvenile, and completely harmless, though we did get quite a bit of grief about it.
Mehri’s mom was very much into the plan. She came down just before we left with face paint so we could blacken our faces and be even more stealthy-like. We also managed to recruit the aid of one of the guys, who made us all promise that we would never, ever reveal that he was part of the plot.
We got into our cars and set off.
The car I was in, which was driven by said nameless boy, was not the one that hit Ziggy’s house. We got our fair share of houses, giggling maniacally all the while, and returned to Mehri’s where the other car informed us that we had to see what was done to Ziggy’s house.
Mistake number one: returning to the scene of the crime.
The girls in the other car had drawn a careful line in chalk about a foot into the road from the end of Ziggy’s driveway, written “This isn’t your property”, and squiggled smiley faces all about. I’m not sure I can think of a more harmless prank than that. We leaned out the windows, had a laugh, and then spotted Ziggy’s car pulling around the corner.
We floored the accelerators and got the heck out of there. But Ziggy had spotted us, and began to follow.
Always take speed bumps at the recommended speed. I think my head hit the roof of the car at least four times.
The other car split off, and Ziggy, for whatever reason, decided to follow us. Alas, Nameless Boy was not terribly familiar with the neighborhood, and pulled into a cul de sac. To correct this mistake, he pulled into a drive way and turned off the car. Ziggy parked sideways, blocking the exit, got out of his car, and began stalking terminator like towards us.
Our response? Well, naturally, Nameless Boy turned the car back on, and drove around Ziggy’s on the grassy shoulder. When we passed Ziggy, we waved and smiled and blew kisses. I thought his head was going to explode.
We returned post haste to Mehri’s house, where we snacked on nachos and related the epic tale to all who would listen.
About a half an hour after all this had gone down, a couple of the guys showed up. Great prank, they said. You well and truly got us. They snacked on nachos, we watched a movie, and after awhile, they stood up to leave.
Mistake number two: allowing the enemy to lull us into a false sense of security.
The guys returned not five minutes later, looking stricken.
“Mehri,” they asked, “do your parents ever park on the street?”
It seemed, so they told us, that Ziggy was so infuriated at the desecration of the three foot by two foot portion of his street, that he had come over to Mehri’s house and decorated all of the cars on the street with whipped cream, calling us all sorts of bad names.
We had to investigate. We would be remiss in our duties to our hosts, Mehri’s parents, if we didn’t.
Mehri’s front lawn is immense, and not very well let. We set out at a trot, and as soon as we were within ten feet of the line of cars on the street, the boys shot out from behind the cars with water balloons and super-soakers.
Thus ended the great prank war of ‘99. Ziggy eventually calmed down and hosed down his street. I’m not sure he ever forgave us for the spark plugs, though.
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