The Pitch
This is from a time when I tried hard, really hard, to make something of myself in this world.
We ate lunch on little benches around the quad, shaded by the sparse trees. The quad was actually hexagonal, but it was still called a 'quad'.
Within the quad, which was quite large, was a sea of asphalt. In the center of this bleak sea was an island. Some scruffy bushes and a statue of "Johnny Rebel", our mascot, loomed large over our heads.
Back then, nobody complained much about Confederate symbolism, and the Confederate Flag plastered all school-purchased materials. Nobody gave a damn about the implications until a decade or so later, I heard - we were all too apathetic about it to care.
But there were things we collectively found amusing.
* * * * *
Almost all parents filled our lunches with large, juicy, California oranges - sweet, delicious, good for us. Huge, weighty, and thick-skinned, these oranges made a baseball look anemic by comparison. We put them to good use.
For anyone with a halfway decent throwing arm, it was possible to pitch one of these suckers right over Johnny Reb. He blocked the view of the exactly opposing side of the quad, perfectly. Of course, everyone partook of this semi-anonymous act. An orange wasn't terribly accurate at that range, and many fell short, or sailed harmlessly into a classroom window.
On the throwing side, it was rather like bowling.
You chose your target: either the football clique, or the cheerleaders, or the dorks - your choice, really. Usually you had to kind of walk a little, circling the quad with an orange bulging in your pocket. It was unspoken, but generally the oranges flew after most people had eaten - this was never codified but just *was*.
It was best to stand back a bit; a few were blatant and stepped forward into the quad for their windup, brazenly defiant. Most of us threw inconspicuously, and as the orange departed on its final journey one would turn in a fluid motion, walking away as if nothing had happened.
And that walk continued, just far enough around the quad to observe and assess the effects of the orange's final instant of existence. Usually they exploded harmlessly into little chunks, spattering juice and pulp. The targeted group usually posted 'guards' for a few minutes, to see who was throwing.
On rare occasion, you would hear yelps and cussing, from an orange that intercepted the side of someone's head.
On the recieving side, it was just as thrilling.
Usually a loud 'Thunk!' and a fine spray of juice would reveal the enemy's attempt to bracket your position. Lunch groups dispersed a bit - it was much harder to hit an individual. With righteous indignation, everyone scrambled for oranges - but I don't think the situation ever escalated to that most infamous of thrown fruits, the pomegranate - orange juice did wash out, and that's all our parents really seemed to care about.
Nobody ratted out anyone, of course. Do that, and assuredly you would go home smelling like a dozen smashed citrus the following day.
* * * * *
Beyond this, there was only one other semi-anonymous lunchtime prank.
To understand it, one had to know that the strawberry ice-cream cups sold on campus were laced with a reddish, strawberry goo amidst the pinkish ice cream.
This goo had the remarkable property of being *identical* in color and texture to Del Taco hot sauce, save for the flavour of course. I was never caught, for I had never done this personally - but it was simple enough to place hot sauce packets out and let the show unfold magically by itself.
I sometimes imagine that in my Final Judgement, the Scales of Justice will be tipped by the weight of one hot sauce packet, and I shall be declared a Minion of Evil. I am unrepentant.
And so would you be, had you seen their faces.
... your Invisible Pal
We ate lunch on little benches around the quad, shaded by the sparse trees. The quad was actually hexagonal, but it was still called a 'quad'.
Within the quad, which was quite large, was a sea of asphalt. In the center of this bleak sea was an island. Some scruffy bushes and a statue of "Johnny Rebel", our mascot, loomed large over our heads.
Back then, nobody complained much about Confederate symbolism, and the Confederate Flag plastered all school-purchased materials. Nobody gave a damn about the implications until a decade or so later, I heard - we were all too apathetic about it to care.
But there were things we collectively found amusing.
* * * * *
Almost all parents filled our lunches with large, juicy, California oranges - sweet, delicious, good for us. Huge, weighty, and thick-skinned, these oranges made a baseball look anemic by comparison. We put them to good use.
For anyone with a halfway decent throwing arm, it was possible to pitch one of these suckers right over Johnny Reb. He blocked the view of the exactly opposing side of the quad, perfectly. Of course, everyone partook of this semi-anonymous act. An orange wasn't terribly accurate at that range, and many fell short, or sailed harmlessly into a classroom window.
On the throwing side, it was rather like bowling.
You chose your target: either the football clique, or the cheerleaders, or the dorks - your choice, really. Usually you had to kind of walk a little, circling the quad with an orange bulging in your pocket. It was unspoken, but generally the oranges flew after most people had eaten - this was never codified but just *was*.
It was best to stand back a bit; a few were blatant and stepped forward into the quad for their windup, brazenly defiant. Most of us threw inconspicuously, and as the orange departed on its final journey one would turn in a fluid motion, walking away as if nothing had happened.
And that walk continued, just far enough around the quad to observe and assess the effects of the orange's final instant of existence. Usually they exploded harmlessly into little chunks, spattering juice and pulp. The targeted group usually posted 'guards' for a few minutes, to see who was throwing.
On rare occasion, you would hear yelps and cussing, from an orange that intercepted the side of someone's head.
On the recieving side, it was just as thrilling.
Usually a loud 'Thunk!' and a fine spray of juice would reveal the enemy's attempt to bracket your position. Lunch groups dispersed a bit - it was much harder to hit an individual. With righteous indignation, everyone scrambled for oranges - but I don't think the situation ever escalated to that most infamous of thrown fruits, the pomegranate - orange juice did wash out, and that's all our parents really seemed to care about.
Nobody ratted out anyone, of course. Do that, and assuredly you would go home smelling like a dozen smashed citrus the following day.
* * * * *
Beyond this, there was only one other semi-anonymous lunchtime prank.
To understand it, one had to know that the strawberry ice-cream cups sold on campus were laced with a reddish, strawberry goo amidst the pinkish ice cream.
This goo had the remarkable property of being *identical* in color and texture to Del Taco hot sauce, save for the flavour of course. I was never caught, for I had never done this personally - but it was simple enough to place hot sauce packets out and let the show unfold magically by itself.
I sometimes imagine that in my Final Judgement, the Scales of Justice will be tipped by the weight of one hot sauce packet, and I shall be declared a Minion of Evil. I am unrepentant.
And so would you be, had you seen their faces.
... your Invisible Pal