Prank Call

When you are a middle school misfit and the pickings are slim, there is a certain level of desperation that can lead to questionable friendship choices. Sometimes, you end up caught in the crossfire of behavior that you normally would not participate in, knowing full well the consequences that lay in store. Sometimes, you become a fall guy.

For a very brief period of time, my entire social circle consisted of two ne’er-do-well brothers from across the street who had recently moved in from out of state. Though I can’t seem to recall where they moved from, I do seem to recall thick southern accents, which means they came from somewhere down south. Since I lived in Michigan, this could have very well meant Ohio.

I can’t for the life of me remember their names. I think I’ve blocked it out. But one was my exact age, the other a year or two older. And they both had a distinct smell—not quite body odor, but like a crossbreed of dirty gym shoes and mold. I’ve never smelled anything like it since.

For many reasons, my parents weren’t too thrilled with my new social circle. As much as my parents hoped I could make some friends, they at least maintained a certain level of standards. Nerds and dorks were fine. Burgeoning criminals, not so much.

As it turned out, their judgment proved accurate. These two were nothing but trouble.

For starters, the ne’er-do-wells rarely went to school. They were a modern day Ewell family. Secondly, they cussed up a storm. My parents were certainly not prudes, but these boys sure loved to cuss it up every chance they got, whether parents—their own or mine—were around or not. They also had a propensity for setting things on fire, blowing things up, throwing rocks and sticks at people or through windows, and participating in various forms of vandalism. In many ways, they were the precursor to Sid from Toy Story.

I was adept at staying out of situations that could either get me hurt or get me in trouble. Most of the time, I was the one tattling on other people. Yet somehow, I got wrapped up with the two stooges simply because they let me hang out with them and they were literally a stone’s throw away.

One day, after riding our bikes up and down dirt piles located behind the school for several hours, we headed back to their house to hang out. Their house smelled just like them but worse.

Nobody was home, so naturally, they took me into their parents’ bedroom to show me their dad’s Penthouse collection. I had never seen porn of any kind before. They actually gave me a copy to sneak home. I knew I could get in trouble, but what middle school boy could resist?

We then headed into the living room, where they proceeded to put a porn video on and started to masturbate in separate corners of the room, as I stared at the TV, with a closed porno mag in my lap, giving serious thought as to whether I wanted to continue this relationship.

The brothers were befuddled as to why I wasn’t participating. Apparently, I was the weird one.

When they were done, the eldest said, post-coitally, “Hey, let’s make some prank calls! To the police station!” His brother couldn’t jump aboard his bandwagon more quickly. After they zipped up their pants, they headed into the kitchen. I followed haplessly behind, thinking I should really head home.

In hindsight, that certainly would have been for the best.

In my middle school logic, I could quietly accept the brotherly masturbation session, but I had to speak up about prank calls.

“Guys, I don’t know about this…” I said, ever the party pooper.

“Why not?” the older one asked.

“Why not?” I said, attempting to be the voice of reason. “We can get into a lot of trouble!”

“We do it all the time!” the younger one said.

“You do?”

“Don’t worry. We don’t dial 911. Just the front desk.”

Maybe it was just me, but pranking the police in any shape or form seemed to be asking for trouble.

So once again, I found myself going along with something I had no desire to partake in. I convinced myself that as long as it wasn’t happening on my parents’ phone, I had nothing to worry about.

The eldest dialed.

“Dearborn Police,” a voice said on the other end. “How may I help you?”

“Help! My mom is getting molested by a midget!”

“Excuse me?” an exasperated voice said on the other end of the phone.

“My mom! She needs help. A midget it assaulting her and trying to kidnap her. He’s got knives. Please come save her!”

He then hung up and the brothers burst into hysterics.

Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but wonder, did he make that story up on the spot? Or, did he plan it out ahead of time? I wasn’t sure which was more likely, or more impressive. All I knew is, it was time to get the hell out of there. I had seen enough for one day.

It wasn’t until I was safely in my own room that I realized what I was holding in my sweaty fingers. The porno mag! What was I thinking? Why did I take it home? I hid it deep in a desk drawer, beneath some Batman comics and Sea-Monkey manuals.

As my family gathered around the dinner table, eating barbequed chicken, my mom asked about my outing.

“It was okay,” I said.

“What did you do?”

“Road our bikes. Played Nintendo. Nothing too exciting.”

“I just wish you would find some other friends.”

Yeah, me too.

And then I spotted something that made me nearly choke on my chicken. A cop car parked in the driveway across the street.

“Some friends you have there,” my dad said.

I tried to play it cool. But playing it cool was something I was incapable of in any capacity. With each passing second, my anxiety increased.

“Why aren’t you eating?” my mom asked.

I took a bite of Uncle Ben’s rice pilaf. And that was when I noticed three of Dearborn’s finest approaching the house. Complete with matching moustaches.

“Why are they coming here?” my dad asked. He got up to answer the door. And why three of them? Dramatic purposes, I suppose.

“Is there something wrong, officers?”

“We believe your son may have pranked called the station,” one of the officers informed my father.

“Bobby! Get over here!”

I sheepishly approached the door.

“Did you prank the police?”

I shook my head.

The police officers and my dad stared at me sternly.

“Come on,” another officer said. “Tell us the truth.”

And then through a cascade of tears, I fessed up.

“You realize,” said the cop with the thinnest ’stache, “young man, that this is a very serious offense?”

I nodded. I said nothing about the kids across the street. Not one word. I didn’t tell the police it had been their idea. I didn’t tell the police I hadn’t dialed or spoke or anything except stood there, desperate to go home.

My dad was fuming.

“Can you promise us you won’t do it again?” the officer with the thickest ’stache said.

I nodded through tears.

“Sorry about that officer,” my dad said. “Bobby, apologize to these officers.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, crying even harder.

“Have a good night,” the officer with the medium ’stache said. They then turned around and headed down the sidewalk.

So why exactly did I take the fall? Easy. It came down to a simple formula: desperate for friends + scared of retaliation = desperate measures.

In other words, I was less afraid of getting in trouble with the law than I was of retribution from the kids across the street.

My parents were outraged. They took away all my TV and video game time. They also forbid me from playing with the stinky ne’er-do-wells ever again.

This meant I was right back where I started—in desperate need of friends. Only now, the police knew where I lived and I was also possibly a criminal.

Oh, well. At least I got to keep the porn magazine.