Hooligans

Scene of the crime

Embedded as they were in a crack of the driveway, the two round masses resembled mushrooms – the dreaded “Death Cap” kind, no less. But how did they get there, directly below the driver’s door of my car? I nudged one with the toe of my sneaker, and it rolled one rotation. Then I noticed the telltale dark specks: cinnamon. I was staring at a pair of donut holes. 

For months, someone (or several someones) has been launching food and empty soda cans in the general direction of my garbage cans. One culprit even shattered an empty glass Peach Snapple bottle at the base of one can. Circumstantial evidence indicated the donut holes were the latest missiles. 

My husband and I live on the downward slope of a major artery into our neighborhood, so we see a lot of traffic. To make matters worse, our postage stamp-sized driveway is sloped as well; We park our trio of garbage cans – trash, recycling and compost – in the far corner, near the curb, because there’s no other flat surface to accommodate them. For some passersby – including, apparently, those displeased with the variety in their Dunkin Donuts Munchkins assorted pack– the cans’ position represents an irresistible target. For others – that segment of the population that learned to drive behind the reins of a horse-drawn carriage – the cans (and the bright orange traffic cone marking their presence) inexplicably become invisible.

“BAM!”

The sudden cacophony of a crash doesn’t startle Matt and I anymore. The cats don’t even raise their heads from the couch.

“There goes another trash can,” I’ll say.

We’ve amassed a collection of side mirror covers, shell casings spent as our plastic cans suffer yet another barrage of assaults. Some days, I’ve arrived home to find the cans completely upside down in the middle of the street, their contents strewn.

A few weeks ago, we managed to identify the owner of one side mirror cover.

“My wife hit your garbage can!” An angry neighbor shouted from his car window. The admission puzzled Matt.

“Um, maybe she should drive slower and look where she’s going?”

The man did not seem to appreciate this unsolicited advice; He gunned his engine and roared down the hill.

The most recent collision, however, sounded slightly different than all the rest. 

“Ahhhhh!” I shouted, running for our front door.

Naturally, Matt was alarmed. Sore from a 30-mile hike the day before and deep under the hypnotic spell of Sunday Night Football, he was in the process of melting into the sofa cushions when I suddenly leapt from my chair.

“What’s wrong?! Where are you going?!”

I didn’t answer. There wasn’t enough time. Barefoot, hair eschew and dressed only in pajamas, I raced down the two flights of steps leading to the street. And that’s when I saw them: Four pubescent hooligans, skateboards tucked under their arms, hooting with villainous laughter and skipping away up the hill.  All three garbage cans lay upended in the street.

“I see you, you little brats!” I hollered. “I’m calling the cops!”

Then, for good measure, I picked up the orange traffic cone and placed the narrow end to my lips.

“You better run! I’m calling the cops!” I shouted.

By this time, Matt had managed to lumber down the steps.

“What happened?”

“They knocked over the garbage cans,” I said, lowering my makeshift megaphone. “Want to come with me as I track them down?”

“Do I have to?” he moaned.

I left Matt to pick up the cans and ran back up the stairs and into the house. I wriggled into a bra and slipped on a pair of pants; I likely wasn’t going to report the scallywags to any authority higher than their mothers, but I’d rather not do so with untamed breast missiles and in sheer shorts.

Turns out, I need not have hurried; the perps had rounded the corner and were strolling leisurely in the middle of the road. I pulled the Prius alongside and rolled down my window.

“Wait!” I shouted.

I expected the hooligans to scatter like cockroaches, so I was surprised when my sudden presence failed to unnerve them. Instead, a 12-year-old in a fluorescent yellow shirt turned toward me and spread his arms wide as if to say, “What the hell do you want?!”

“I saw you flip my garbage cans. Where do you live?” I demanded, adopting what I felt to be my most authoritative voice. Admittedly, this line of questioning was probably not the most cunning.

“I didn’t do it,” Fluorescent Shirt said.

“I saw you do it. I’m calling the cops.” And you’ll end up in prison on a chain gang and never get into college, I nearly added.

The kid merely shrugged and continued walking up the hill. 

“Hold still while I take your picture,” I commanded.

Despite my threats, I had no idea what to do next. So I followed – at 2 mph. The suspects, brilliant getaway artists that they were, continued walking straight down the road. 

Oh goody, I thought. Perhaps they’ll lead me straight to their homes. Mentally, I began rubbing my palms together in delicious anticipation.

“You’re stalking us,” Fluorescent Shirt said, turning back around to stare me down. He was starting to get on my nerves.

Crap. Perhaps I was, technically, stalking them. I imagined their mothers reprimanding me. In any event, a Porsche Boxster was nipping at my bumper. I pulled over, allowed the car to pass, and steered the Prius back toward my house. 

The suspects were gone! No, not gone. Feebly hiding behind a roadside log.

“I can see you, you idiot!” I shouted as I drove by. “You’re wearing a fluorescent shirt, for goodness sake!”

Red-faced and sweating, I returned home. I probably should have called the police, but I didn’t. If those kids were anything like me at that age, they would find punishment soon enough. If some crazy, wild-haired woman tracked me down and threatened legal action, I’d toss and turn the entire night, terrified my college prospects were ruined. Then I’d confess everything, through a hail of tears, to my mom.

“I’ll call the cops if they do it again,” I assured Matt. “In the mean time, they better not think they’re getting any Halloween candy from this house.”

Unbeknownst to the hooligans, they’ve managed to punish me as well. Another bang. Just now. I race down the stairs. The street is empty, the cans are all in their proper place and I’m standing in the middle of the road -- braless, shoeless and clad in snowflake pajamas.