My best friend Tony had a paper route and, as his best friend, I was entrusted to help Tony collect his weekly booty from his customers. Once a week, we stepped out into the night to collect a week’s worth of newspaper deliveries, paid in cash to Tony by the moms and dads along his route. Tony made minor money from the newspaper company but made the bulk of his money from tips. As his trusted helper Tony routinely shared some of his tips with me. Such collaboration was common, as some nights Tony had a baseball game and couldn’t collect or some mornings he was sick or, perhaps, a bit lazy, and couldn’t deliver. I covered the route for him. The money, along with money I earned cutting lawns with my dad’s push lawnmower and rake all went to the same place. We pooled funds and bought comic books. Silver Surfer, Thor and The Hulk were our favorites. They stood up to evil.
Through the course of collecting many weeks’ worth of newspaper fees Tony and I realized many of the customers on the route did not keep track of Tony’s collections. One week the wife paid us while the next week the husband paid. As I was to learn as an adult, sometimes husbands and wives don’t coordinate, let alone talk, about such small things. As a child, this was useful information. The lack of record keeping or spousal communications created ambiguity and there was enough of it that we figured we could pad the collections by asking for more than was actually owed. It worked; most of the time.
So, we regularly added a week of two of fees to our collection requests. Innocently, we knocked on doors, asked for a padded amount and hoped for the best. Not so innocently we timed our door knocking for dinner or bedtime for homes with little kids. Most customers were busy and just wanted to get rid of us so they could get back to their dinner or chores. When challenged on a proposed collection fee, we acted dumb. It was easy as we were dumb. Our standard response was a stumbling apology, “I, I, I, I’m so, so sorry. I, I… you’re right, it’s not $3.75 it’s $1.25.” We received a wayward glance and, usually no tip on such encounters, however, the payoff on average far exceeded the lost tips.
At some point, though, the gravy train had to stop. And it did so one Friday evening in front of the Duval house. Mrs. Duval was on to us. After hearing our request for $4.50 she pounced with a list of attempted collections, complete with dates and amounts, over the last month. She accused us of trying to cheat her, “This is the last straw, Tony. I’m not rube. And I’m gonna report you and your little friend here,” she said pointing to me, “to the newspaper. This is the end of the line for you, you little shits.”
Mrs. Duval was as good as her word. She did report Tony and as a result he was not allowed to collect with friends (me). He was also told to use customer sign-off cards. Customers now had to initial the amount paid each week. We were humiliated and left without sufficient money to buy Silver Surfer.
There was more, though. In addition to losing our misbegotten income stream, in a world of chit-chatting housewives word spread fast. If Mrs. Duval was allowed to get away with putting us in our place without recourse she would eventually tell her friends over morning coffee how she stopped the two little paperboy shits from ripping her off. This little gossip would lead to a contagion and, eventually, spread to our parents. With one surprise attack Mrs. Duval had stopped our train of lies and was poised to position us for a thorough parental beating. In our world, no parent in his or her right mind would not beat their kid if said kid stole from another parent. In a world of mutually assured destruction, this action merited complete retaliation.
Over the weekend Tony and I sulked about and rummaged our minds for an appropriate response. We searched our minds and garages for vengeance. On Sunday we found ourselves gravitating towards our inventory of spray paint. We always had a lot of spray paint around the house as we painted our bikes, forts, football helmets, trees, telephone pools and gas powered race cars. Graffiti was everywhere in the 70s graffiti and spray paint was a standard tool for a 12 year old boy. It was part of our repertoire. It went without saying that such paint was flammable and was be used with caution and never while smoking the Camel no-filters we took from Tony’s mom’s purse. The flip side of this know danger was the knowledge that spray paint could be used as a flame-thrower. We saw the news; if it was good enough to use against the Vietcong it was good enough to use against Mrs. Duval.
After allowing the weekend to wind down we determined enough time had passed. We responded. To keep Mrs. Duval off our scent I would execute our response. She knew Tony and not me. So, Tony stayed home to create an alibi and I went out into the evening, telling my parents I was going to Tony’s. I went directly to the Duval’s street bringing with me my Cricket lighter and a can of spray paint.
The Duval home was a yellow two story with aluminum siding. The second story was a finished attic with windows facing the street and backyard. Attached on the right, as you faced the house, was a one car garage. The houses in the neighborhood were all pretty similar and were packed tightly together. The Duval’s garage was separated from the neighbor’s garage by thick hedges.
Scoping out the situation, I skulked past their house, craning my neck to look in the front living room window for activities. I repeated this not-so-stealthy surveillance a couple of times and, spying no activity in the house, ran up the driveway to place myself between the Duval’s garage and the neighbors’ hedges. I was in position.
Wearing my grey Snorkel jacket with the snorkel up around my head to shield my face, I began spraying. Clicking my Cricket, I lit the paint. It spewed out a foot long yellow and orange flame directly in front of my face. Though I had practiced on a log in my backyard yesterday, the flame pierced the surrounding darkness and scared the shit out of me. I fell back against the hedges and lost the flame. Looking around, I started over, pointing the can directly onto the Duval’s aluminum siding as I lit the flame. Initially forming a blackened circle or carbon, the siding started to discolor and blister. I began moving my arm in a circular motion to increase the area affected by the flame. I experimented as I tried both clockwise and counter clockwise approaches. It smelled of burnt metal. Save for my flame it was completely dark. The only noise was the hissing of the aerosol can. Just me, darkness and twelve inches of flame; burning a blackened oval into the Duval house. Fuck you, Mrs. Duval. Fuck you for fucking us.
Suddenly, and without warning, the Duval’s station wagon swung into the driveway. Headlights bathed me as I froze in place, screaming, “Oh shit!”
I had simply assumed the family was home and would never be able to see me on the dark side of the garage. Apparently, I was wrong. Crap. This was not something I expected.
The car lurched to a halt midway up the driveway. The front doors flung open as my heart raced.
“What the fuck are you doing?” screamed Mr. Duval, “Get the hell over here you son of a bitch.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” screamed Mrs. Duval. “My home!”
I did not heed Mr. Duval’s request and dropped the can, bolting from the smell of smoke and burnt metal into the backyard, diving headlong through the rear pricker bushes. Scrambling to my feet I bolted in utter terror, scratching my hands against the ground. As a youngster, you learned to use pricker bushes and hedges to your advantage when being chased by adults. Adults hesitated before going through hedges. Always, always run through hedges and thorns when being chased. Without thinking I followed this self evident truth.
Screaming at the top of his lungs, “I am going to fucking kill you!” Mr. Duval ran around the side of the hedges, affording me the few seconds I needed. I ran through his neighbor’s back yard, across the street and into a darkened block of interconnected back yards. Finding a darkened area, I dropped to the ground. The neighborhood’s houses and yards were small and I could hear him yelling and running in the street, seething.
Neighbors came out of their houses. I was fucked. Porch lights went on. I stayed low, creeping through a couple of yards until I found a wood pile next to a crumbling two foot stone wall. I crawled between the wood pile and stone wall like a terrified rabbit hiding from the foxes. I stayed there, not moving. Eventually I had to tilt over on my side, unzip my pants and, as quietly as possible, pee against the wood pile. Suffice it to say, the pee did not cooperate and soon began to flow back towards me, forcing me to arch my back until I could stuff a couple of logs under me to separate me from my pooling pee. I guess I didn’t think that one through either.
