When I was a kid I loved mischief. It didn’t matter if I was taping the handle down on my walkie-talkies and placing them in my sister’s bedroom when she had friend sleeping over so I could hear their conversations, or was knocking on people’s door and running away. I just loved pranks when I was a kid.
Probably the worst prank, or today what I would call assholish behavior, that I did many, many times was egging people’s cars. Back in the day, my group of friends would jump in the bed of my little gray Mazda truck and we would hit the Safeway grocery store. We’d then buy 10 dozen eggs in the middle of the night. The grocery tellers had to know we were up to no good; either that or they must have thought we were really high and hungry, which was also probably true.
One night we deiced to go egging in Hawaii Kai—a wealthy area of O’ahu. My soldiers were in my little gray Mazda truck bed like looking out our targets as we did a drive-by just to get a feel of what we were dealing with—a reconnaissance if you will. Once we knew which house had what cars, we then began our egg assault against the Mercedes, BMW’s and Jaguars of the world. The more expensive the car, the more we wanted to hit it.
My first car was a white 1967 Mustang with red interior. This night, sitting on the main drag in Hawaii Kai, there happened to be an exact reverse of my first car. It was a red 1967 Mustang convertible with white interior, and it had the top down. I told my friends, “Leave that one alone.” I guess the car bond made me feel like it was the brotherly thing to say.
But I heard someone yell, “Fuck that,” and I started hearing, splat-a-tatt-tatt as at least half a dozen eggs hit the red ‘Stang.
I hit the gas to the floor to get the assassins away from the classic as fast as I could, but it was too late. I looked in the mirror and I could see the yellow yolks and egg shells running down everywhere like snot running from a child’s nose.
The snipers were laughing and yelling, “Turn around man, turn around! You have to see it.”
I really didn’t want to go back, but peer pressure got the best of me so I drove up about a quarter of a mile and turned the truck around and headed back toward the car. It was one of the saddest things I had ever seen. The innocent victims of war, I thought. I could see where the yellow yolk was streaming down the front corner panel, white shells flecked all over the red paint. I shook my head thinking about what if this would have been my car?
The guys were all laughing in the truck bed and then the front porch light came on where the Mustang was parked and everyone yelled, “Go! Go! Go!”
We drove up the street, gave it about five minutes and then drove back by the Mustang. There was a Japanese man rinsing his car off in the middle of the night, which made me feel really bad, so I decided we needed to halt the eggings and go get some food.
Apparently the others were not as affected by seeing the guy wash off his little piece of the American Dream as I was because I accidently turned down the same street about an hour or so after we saw the man rinse off his car. All the guys realized it before I did and I could hear them laughing. I looked at my friend who was in the cab with me and he just shook his head.
“What?” I said. He pointed with his head to the red Mustang and right when I was saying, “Ahhhh, shit!” the guys in the back of the truck hit it again—multiple times.
Why am I bringing this up? Because I when I did my food-related crimes, I was 17 or 18 years old. Dumb is built into the age. But this week in Boise Idaho, police caught a 74 year old woman pouring mayonnaise into the book return box at the county library. She is also a person of interest in 10 other condiment related cases.
Now I know if you live in a glass house you shouldn’t throw stones, but as a former condiment crook myself, I think the community should get together and egg her. She should get one egg for every book she ruined with her little prank and any neighborhood kid that she told to, “Stay off my lawn,” should be the one who’s throwing the eggs.