Junior High - 0, Thin Blue Line - 2
Junior High was out for the summer, and the batteries in my transistor radio were dying. The latest Beach Boys hit was frustratingly fading in and out so I was an easy mark when Donnie came over. He had free run of his old man's tool shed and a truly genius project in mind. We scavenged through the rafters of my dad's garage to find the necessary supplies - wire clamps, discarded broom handle, and an old bicycle inner-tube. Our treasures in hand, we headed for the tool shed. Soon we re-emerged with the best rubber-band bazooka of all time. Donnie test fired at a squawking blue-jay and discovered the large black bands sliced from the bicycle inner-tube were accurate out to 50 feet. But, we needed a more entertaining target that wouldn't flap away at the first 'zing!' Back then folks still walked to the corner grocery, so we decided to climb the pump-house across from Bell's Market. From there we figured we could nail shoppers in their behinds as they rounded the corner, grocery bags in hand.
Donnie and I took turns firing until we finally zinged our first victim and the man reacted superbly! He jumped then shifted his groceries to one hand and rubbed his rump with the other. He swore and jerked his head around looking for the hornet he thought had stung him. The shopper reentered the store and came back out with a clerk who poked at the awning while looking for a hornet's nest. Donnie and I lay on the roof of the pump-house convulsed in suppressed laughter. Soon we were again peering over the side, waiting for our next target to exit the store. Eventually we nailed another customer with the same effect as before, except this time they sent out the kid that sweeps up. We saw him bend over and scoop up one of the spent rubber bands from the sidewalk. The kid glanced in our direction and we quickly ducked. Peeking over the edge of the pump-house roof we saw him take the band inside, then return with his broom to sweep up the rest. He didn't glance our way again so we thought we'd escaped detection - until the police cruiser's tires crunched on the gravel behind the pump house.
We peeked over the roof edge and saw a grizzled, pot-bellied sergeant and a spit-and-polish rookie climb out of the police car. "All right," barked the sarge, "climb on down with that peashooter!" Donnie and I both had wobbly knees as we climbed down to meet our doom. The sergeant hooked his thumbs over his gun belt as the rookie snatched away our broomstick bazooka. "Wow, Sarge," he said in awe, "Look at this cannon! Pretty ingenious," The sarge growled, "Seems pretty accurate too. Get their sack of ammo." Glaring at us the sarge barked, "All right you two, turn around and get your hands up against that wall!" Our hearts in our throats, Donnie and I obeyed, knowing we were about to be handcuffed and hauled away to jail. Behind us the sarge barked an order, "Load up one of those bands." We heard the rookie grunt as he stretched a band into firing position. Then the sarge demanded, "Which of you geniuses thought up this weapon?" Donnie stammered out a confession and the sarge called out, "Ready, Aim… FIRE!" I heard a 'zing,' then Donnie yelped and began hopping up and down, his hands still pressed to the pump house wall. Across the street, a roar of approval came from the store clerks and customers who'd stopped to watch our apprehension by the town's thin blue line. The sarge growled at me, "How many folks did you shoot at?" I squeaked out, "Four…. but we only hit two." The sarge ordered the rookie, "Count out four bands… apiece!" At the command "FIRE," I felt a pinching sting on my rump, and like Donnie, I began hopping up and down, my fingers clutching the bricks of the pump-house, while the crowd across the street jeered their approval.
After the rubber bands were fired alternately into our backsides, the sarge marched us over to the curb. There he placed our broomstick bazooka across the curb edge and stomped the gun into pieces as the watching crowd cheered. "Head for home," the sarge bellowed, "and if I catch either of you up to mischief again I'll pin every unsolved crime in the county on the two of you! Now SCRAM!" Donnie and I shot down the sidewalk at a full run, and we didn't slow until the crowd's laughter had faded from earshot. "You gonna tell your folks," Donnie asked. "Nope," I replied, "You?" Rubbing his bottom, Donnie answered emphatically, "No way!" We walked on in silence for a bit, and then Donnie said, "You know, if we had a half dollar apiece, we could go swimming down at the pool." I thought this over for a moment, then said, "Robison's cashes in empty soda bottles, and there's some next to the freezer in our garage."
Our life of hard crime cut short, Donnie and I spent the summer at the municipal swimming pool, alternating between watching girls and taunting the cannon-ball divers sitting out their misdemeanors on the knuckle-head bench.
