The Class of '81 at Arvada West High School was coming up pretty dull in the "senior pranks" department, and school was just about out. Me and some buddies were out in the teacher's parking lot on a Friday sticking half a watermelon under somebody's rear wheel. While working, we realized we weren't contributing a lot to society either and began to fantasize about a REAL prank.
You know how the "can you top this" game goes. Getting caught up in the moment, I said, "Wouldn't it be great if somebody rode a motorcycle through the school? Like Evil Knievel in that movie... "
One guy was skeptical. "That wouldn't work. Right inside the door you'd have to go up a flight of stairs by the principal's office. "
My dirt bike could do it, I declared, and without really meaning to, I was promptly nominated. Besides, I had the only motorcycle.
One thing led to another. We created plans, and saw that they were good. Even ingenious. I would enter the front door, go up the stairs by the office, ride down the halls, and exit whenever fate required. I would have sentinels posted at each exit and if it looked like things were going south, they would let me out and I'd escape. Monday during third hour - it was settled. There was no turning back.
I remember a fleeting impression as I entered the front door that day. I sure was glad I nixed the idea of removing the muffler from my bike - inside that front lobby it was WAY too loud already.
The stairs were a piece of cake, but after going by the office door, I promptly had the vice principal on my tail, shouting, screaming, cussing, and out of breath. I wondered if he was being able to read my license plate while he ran. I wondered why I hadn't tied a rag around that plate.
The thing I hadn't counted on was the reaction of the students. I don't know if word leaked out beforehand, but instantly the classrooms emptied and the hallways were jam packed with students. There was barely room for my handlebars. Worst of all, as I went by each door, I couldn't see any of my cohorts. I ended up making a loop and heading back toward the front lobby.
But Mr. Riley, the shop teacher who looked about 8 feet tall stepped in my path and I either had to stop, or hit him.
I stopped. I got hauled to the principals office. I got hauled from there to jail. I got hauled back to the principals office where he promised I would NOT graduate. (He was wrong about that. The lawyer I hired couldn't get me off the reckless driving ticket, but he convinced the school to back down. ) It took 10 years for my driving record and insurance rates to recover.
Every time I split a watermelon in half, I think about that Friday in the teacher's parking lot, and wish we'd a just been content with the small stuff...