The dark doesn't last as long, maybe that was the allure of the Summer Solstice. We started doing it on a whim, barely even prepared for what was about to happen. The first night wasn’t bad, just a couple of us and a few packs of Angel Soft was all it took. We hit two houses, right across the street from each other. Lazy really, that’s all I have to say about that.
Really that first night was just a practice run. John and I needed to get our communication down. We had to know what we were saying without actually saying a thing. Quick, quite, and disappear into the night…that was the only way to t.p. a house.
Yes, I said t.p., as in toilet paper. We were young (well, he was young) and the summer solstice loomed at the end of the week. How many houses could we hit on the shortest night of the year? That’s like asking how many licks it takes to reach the center of a Tootsie Pop. The answer hinged an a couple of variables: how much t.p. did we have? How close together were the houses? How many people were involved?
John and I went out the first night just to get his feet wet. I had some grand plans for the night of the solstice. We would go to 6th Avenue West Estates to hit a fair few houses: K-- family, R-- family, and the two S-- families. The dry run went well…except that John had to brag (or aplogize) to the people we hit. Man…keep it quiet.
That was a Saturday. The following Friday was Solstice. We set out with a band of merry men and women: Brad, Larry, Anna, Molly, John, and I. Adam King was a last minute add-on, but one more wouldn’t hurt the trip. We had some t.p., but not nearly enough for the night. We gathered more rolls and met up in the Estates. Brad, Anna, and Larry had already done one S-- family, the smaller home, by the time we caught up with them. Brad and I left the others to cover one more house while we hit the “impossible” target: the R-- family. Brother R-- claimed that his home was unassailable by t.p. standards. Those words sounded like a challenge…and I was up for it.
I went around back via a dried out ditch, and Brad stayed on the street in the front yard. We each had four rolls of t.p. I launched mine from my position, which was nearly eye-line with the roof as soon as I got out of the ditch. Brad launched his and we traded back and forth for about 15 minutes.
Quick, quiet, and out…just like the plan said.
On our way over to the K-- family’s home, Brad and I walked in front of a house with a bedroom window open. We heard what sounded like an aerosol whipped cream can and giggling. What was going on there? We had no time to investigate, the K-- family’s two story tudor awaited.
Cul-de-sac’s are not my favorite locations for doing this sort of thing, they offer limited escape options. I took a small crew to the backyard to hit the fruit trees. Brad and the rest tackled the front. We had t.p. and plastic forks for the lawn.
We had toilet paper dripping from every branch of every tree. The slight breeze of the evening lifted the t.p. ever-so-gently…it was beautiful. When we came back around to the front things had degenerated into pure vandalism. Oh the trees were draped with t.p., the lawn bristled with plasticware, but they had found that the bricks were loose on the front porch and pulled it apart. I looked up at the house and saw the ghost-like figure of Brother K-- looking out his window…watching the whole thing. I sounded the alarm as the front door burst open. We scattered like cockroaches when the lights turn on. Rhys and Quinn gave chase, thowing rocks as they went. We had to abondon the S-- house, the mansion on the hill, but we all got out without many bruises.
We cut down our crew and decided to hit a few homes in other neighborhoods. Travel time would cut down on what we could do, but we had to try. We saran wrapped a Saab, very carefully so as not to set off the car alarm. Then we hit the coup de grace: the D-- home. This family, mainly the oldest boy, had a reputation for such nights of mayhem. It was like challenging Michael Jackson to a dance-off. We emptied all of our remaining t.p. stores on that last home. By the time we were done, it looked like Christmas…if Christmal looked like a mummified house. As we threw rolls of t.p. to roll across the balcony and back down, we heard ruslting. The girls were sleeping on the balcony.
Again we were caught, but all managed to escape.
Except for John. Oh he could have ran and hid like the rest of us, but instead he gave himself up to the girl that he was infatuated with. He claimed that he thought it was me and stopped. He said that it was dark and he couldn’t tell who it was. Sure, my 212 lbs. could easily look the same as a 16 year old athletic girl's silouhette.
One night, three neighborhoods, five houses…that’s how many homes a crew of seven could hit on Solstice 1993.
*(Names of the victims have been changed to protect the guilty.)
Really that first night was just a practice run. John and I needed to get our communication down. We had to know what we were saying without actually saying a thing. Quick, quite, and disappear into the night…that was the only way to t.p. a house.
Yes, I said t.p., as in toilet paper. We were young (well, he was young) and the summer solstice loomed at the end of the week. How many houses could we hit on the shortest night of the year? That’s like asking how many licks it takes to reach the center of a Tootsie Pop. The answer hinged an a couple of variables: how much t.p. did we have? How close together were the houses? How many people were involved?
John and I went out the first night just to get his feet wet. I had some grand plans for the night of the solstice. We would go to 6th Avenue West Estates to hit a fair few houses: K-- family, R-- family, and the two S-- families. The dry run went well…except that John had to brag (or aplogize) to the people we hit. Man…keep it quiet.
That was a Saturday. The following Friday was Solstice. We set out with a band of merry men and women: Brad, Larry, Anna, Molly, John, and I. Adam King was a last minute add-on, but one more wouldn’t hurt the trip. We had some t.p., but not nearly enough for the night. We gathered more rolls and met up in the Estates. Brad, Anna, and Larry had already done one S-- family, the smaller home, by the time we caught up with them. Brad and I left the others to cover one more house while we hit the “impossible” target: the R-- family. Brother R-- claimed that his home was unassailable by t.p. standards. Those words sounded like a challenge…and I was up for it.
I went around back via a dried out ditch, and Brad stayed on the street in the front yard. We each had four rolls of t.p. I launched mine from my position, which was nearly eye-line with the roof as soon as I got out of the ditch. Brad launched his and we traded back and forth for about 15 minutes.
Quick, quiet, and out…just like the plan said.
On our way over to the K-- family’s home, Brad and I walked in front of a house with a bedroom window open. We heard what sounded like an aerosol whipped cream can and giggling. What was going on there? We had no time to investigate, the K-- family’s two story tudor awaited.
Cul-de-sac’s are not my favorite locations for doing this sort of thing, they offer limited escape options. I took a small crew to the backyard to hit the fruit trees. Brad and the rest tackled the front. We had t.p. and plastic forks for the lawn.
We had toilet paper dripping from every branch of every tree. The slight breeze of the evening lifted the t.p. ever-so-gently…it was beautiful. When we came back around to the front things had degenerated into pure vandalism. Oh the trees were draped with t.p., the lawn bristled with plasticware, but they had found that the bricks were loose on the front porch and pulled it apart. I looked up at the house and saw the ghost-like figure of Brother K-- looking out his window…watching the whole thing. I sounded the alarm as the front door burst open. We scattered like cockroaches when the lights turn on. Rhys and Quinn gave chase, thowing rocks as they went. We had to abondon the S-- house, the mansion on the hill, but we all got out without many bruises.
We cut down our crew and decided to hit a few homes in other neighborhoods. Travel time would cut down on what we could do, but we had to try. We saran wrapped a Saab, very carefully so as not to set off the car alarm. Then we hit the coup de grace: the D-- home. This family, mainly the oldest boy, had a reputation for such nights of mayhem. It was like challenging Michael Jackson to a dance-off. We emptied all of our remaining t.p. stores on that last home. By the time we were done, it looked like Christmas…if Christmal looked like a mummified house. As we threw rolls of t.p. to roll across the balcony and back down, we heard ruslting. The girls were sleeping on the balcony.
Again we were caught, but all managed to escape.
Except for John. Oh he could have ran and hid like the rest of us, but instead he gave himself up to the girl that he was infatuated with. He claimed that he thought it was me and stopped. He said that it was dark and he couldn’t tell who it was. Sure, my 212 lbs. could easily look the same as a 16 year old athletic girl's silouhette.
One night, three neighborhoods, five houses…that’s how many homes a crew of seven could hit on Solstice 1993.
*(Names of the victims have been changed to protect the guilty.)
