Last night our across-the-street neighbors hosted a large party for their 14-year-old. She is a sweet, responsible girl who looks adults in the eye and speaks in complete sentences. They’re good folks.
At the party’s height, there were a couple of dozen vehicles present, none of which were parked inappropriately. There was a baseline din, but nothing approaching excessive noise. The party was considerately executed, generating no reasonable basis for complaint.
But boys will be boys.
Our doorbell rang about 11:15. We had gone to bed, but weren’t yet asleep. We got dressed and went to the door, and—surprise—no one was there. Ring ‘n’ Run lives in 2007. I was once the predator; now I’m the prey.
Revenge would soon be mine.
I was all the way back to full awake, so I decided to stay at the front door and look out the window for a bit. (Stealth mode; all lights off.) Sure enough, it wasn’t but a minute or two before five or six boys assembled in the front yard across the street to make more nefarious plans.
They schemed about thirty seconds, then moved to the driveway of the next-door neighbor to the south and had yet another meeting. At that point all but two of the boys peeled off and started ambling back to the party. The remaining two walked up the sidewalk to ring up another victim.
I waited until they got on the top step, three feet from the bell. Then I quickly opened my door and yelled “Y’all get back to the party right now!”
I will forever relish the memory of the ensuing frantic scramble.
You know how in cartoons, when a character tries to run and his legs just spin in place? Heh, heh. Once they got traction, they returned to the correct backyard in about seven seconds, perhaps with a little tinkle spot or two drying on the fronts of their shorts.
We went back to bed chuckling, my unambiguous presence on this side of the parenthood line further cemented.