It was the trip to the retirement home that triggered it.
Mom had been feeling a little punk lately, so I got her an 18-pack of variety Gatorade. Rather than carry the awkward box and a shopping bag upstairs and across the wing to her apartment, I decided to use one of the cute mini shopping carts the facility kindly provides. The first item I dropped into the cart was the heavy box.
Splat! I heard it and felt it. On my foot.
Then I looked. My left shin and foot were covered in something drippy and pale yellow.
“What the heck?” I muttered.
My eyes went to the mini shopping cart, which wasn’t so cute anymore. It also had pale yellow something dripping from it.
I shifted the shopping bag to my other hand and hefted the box of Gatorade up on its end. Underneath was the culprit: an upside-down packet of honey mustard sauce, the kind you get at a fast-food place. It was empty, of course. Its contents were splattered all down my leg.
“What the heck?” I muttered again.
I instinctively looked around. Ohhhh, this place wasn’t just a lounge and mini shopping cart storage place. It was a small cafe, and there was no one in sight. But there on the counter were more of the empty container’s counterparts- in all flavors. Someone must’ve dropped one into the cart after the noontime meal.
Annoyed by my delivery delay, I mopped my leg with a dozen or so of the one-ply paper napkins on a nearby table, noting that my black sandal had also been a minor casualty in the assault. There was only so much a fistful of dry napkins could do. I headed to the restroom for water.
Luckily, the sandal was an old Croc. No harm done. I had to chuckle. I must’ve looked pretty funny with honey mustard sauce running down my leg.
But as I ran water across its flat sole and rinsed mustard from the embossed logo, I heard a voice. “Payback time!”
Uh oh! How many times had I pulled a similar trick during my prank years?
Surely one of the elderly residents hadn’t placed the dipping sauce container there as a joke; after all, no one was watching. But I certainly had been watching, back in my middle school days. I hadn’t thought about that phase of my life in years. The more I thought, the more I remembered. I probably owed some people apologies.
The condiment package prank was one I knew well. It was easy, usually offered immediate gratification, and was pretty fun when it wasn’t me in the line of fire. Drop a packet underneath people’s feet in the crowded hallway, and someone was bound to step on it and emerge with legs covered in ketchup or mustard. This prank resurfaced years later in the restrooms at a school where I taught. When students complained about the unfairness of condiment packets being removed from the school cafeteria, it was hard to keep my teacher face straight.
We girls implemented a similar prank on the boys in our youth group while on retreats. Here’s how it went: fill a paper cup three-quarters of the way with shaving cream. Flatten the rim together and wait. After lights-out, shove the flattened rim side of the cup under the door from the hallway side and then knock loudly. When the lights switch on or someone comes to the door, stomp on the cup. Run. Be sure to peek into the hallway to see the unsuspecting foam-covered boy looking for revenge.
Oh, I had lots of pranks, some meaner than others.
At home in our old farmhouse, sometimes we’d play a hide-and-seek game. I’d hide in our huge closet under the eaves, sitting on an old steamer trunk behind the clothes rod, just waiting for my sister. It was the scariest place we could find to hide indoors, and we liked being a little afraid. Long after the games ended, though, I sometimes hid behind those clothes, waiting for her to come into the closet. When she’d least expect it, I’d reach out a hand between the shirts and dresses and grab her arm, just to hear her shriek. So cruel!
Sadly, my prank season carried over into middle school. When I discovered that the bike shop in town also carried novelties, the kind advertised on the back of comic books in those days, a new dimension opened for me. Yes, I had a hand buzzer, but it was pretty lame. Anyone who shook your hand while you were wearing one of these massive silver contraptions with the huge silver ring to hold it in place had to be blind. The whoopee cushion provided giggles, but its sounds were not very realistic, and you had to be quick–very quick!–to toss it unnoticed onto someone’s chair before they sat down. Not very practical.
The best prank by far happened in my 8th-grade English class, or so I remembered. It was a classic. I have no idea how I thought of it or what possessed me to try to pull it off. Maybe there were instructions on the package. I must’ve craved attention because to do it right would require all the acting skills I could muster. But the payoff promised to be sweet.
For several years now, I’ve tiptoed around one of the members of my book club. I thought the teacher I pulled the prank on was one of the members. Her last name was what I remembered, but something didn’t seem quite right. She taught social studies, but I remembered it happening in English class. Two more book clubbers are also my former middle school teachers, and for years, I’ve lived in dread of all three suddenly remembering my misbehavior of my wayward years. Was I really that rotten kid? I’m sorry to say, YES!
This morning at book club, however, just a few days after the honey mustard incident, I decided it was time to confess. I vowed once and for all to determine if she was the same teacher I had pranked and confess. However, after all my mental prep, I was disappointed. She didn’t attend this month’s meeting. Determined to make the best of the situation, I charged ahead, collecting information from the other former teachers who were there.
Yes, the others confirmed, she taught there when I was a student. Yes, her classroom was where I remembered the prank happening. No, there was no one else in that hallway with that last name.
It was beginning to look like I owed her an apology. I would have to reach out after all these years.
But the other book club readers couldn’t let go of my questions. They had to hear the story.
I’d gone to the bike shop and purchased the best prank device I’d ever seen. It was a tan-colored, amorphous blob of fake vomit, complete with chunks of unidentifiable orange and brown stuff. It was realistic enough to make you hurl just looking at it. Adding drops of water on top gave it a visible and tangible moistness that would make anyone hesitate before examining it closely. Best of all, it was flexible enough to fold, a critical feature for success.
I came into English–or social studies– class that day holding my belly and moaning. In my hand, I held the folded-over fake vomit. My goal was to slap it down so that it landed face up. Otherwise, the chunks of random fake food would be hidden and its disgusting impact lessened. I practiced hurling it at home all evening the night before my limited engagement began.
Once enough of the class had assembled during the passing period, I began groaning loudly about feeling sick. Most of my classmates ignored me. Then, after the bell rang, I seized the moment. Starting with gut-wrenching sound effects, I brought my hands to my face and then threw them toward the floor as I lurched forward. At the same time, I released the wet fake vomit- SPLAT!- onto the floor.
Luckily, I was bent over, which, with a quick pivot, allowed me to turn away from the teacher’s desk and hide my laughter. A few of my classmates who were in on the prank laughed, as others shied away. The young teacher was rattled but quickly summoned the custodian. In those days, janitors used a packaged sawdust-like absorbent to soak up such messes. No worries about universal precautions for bloodborne pathogens in those days.
Smells from such accidents could ripen a classroom very quickly, so in just a few moments, the custodian arrived with a broom and dustpan. He was also carrying a small flour sack-sized bag of the aromatic vomit absorber. Still holding my stomach, I turned to watch him open the top and begin to sprinkle it on the “puddle.” By now, the whole class was watching him. Then, as if he were part of the performance, with great flair, he emptied the entire bag on the classroom floor. The whole class howled as a puff of dust rose above the puddle of puke.
Finished, he readied his broom and dustpan for the nasty work. That was my cue: I straightened up and took a step toward the mess. Slowly, I reached down to the floor and, using my forefinger and thumb, I delicately fished my prank vomit out of the pile of sawdust. With the most exaggerated comedic timing, I wigged it once or twice to remove any traces of sawdust and then stuffed it in my pocket and sat down.
The man’s eyes widened, and he looked around the room. The teacher was wide-eyed and stunned. But the entire class broke up in hilarity.
I have no idea what else we did during that class period. And even though I couldn’t swear which class it happened in, I’ve never forgotten the prank. I’m sorry to say that I’m still a little proud of it.
My book club members had a good chuckle from the story, especially thinking our friend had been the teacher. I still wasn’t so sure.
After our meeting ended, I reached out to my long-time friend for some facts. Since fifth grade, when I coveted her white go-go boots and we became friends, she’s been the keeper of our school memories. Did she remember it happening? Did I misremember the class? Who was the teacher? Immediately, she texted me back. She remembered the incident well. It WAS English class, but a different teacher, one who shared her last name, not my book club friend. And that teacher had moved on to another school fairly soon thereafter.
That was some relief. I did remember it correctly.
And I can attend book club with one less transgression that I hope my former teachers don’t remember.
The honey mustard incident this week has made me wonder about the statute of limitations on karma. That’s because whether it involved ketchup, shaving cream, or dead fish, I have a fairly healthy amount of pranking–maybe even traumatizing–others to atone for.
I’m hoping that being regretful is consequence enough, that my personal karma in the near future doesn’t involve any recurrence of creepy hands reaching from my closet or people vomiting near me. No, I think dripping in honey mustard has been enough.
