Gunpowder & Peonies

The Thrilling Absence of Rope

There’s a lot one can accomplish with a rope, if one is clear‑headed and creative and enjoys annoying people of all ages. One can tie up lawn furniture or rig booby traps for unsuspecting friends, or stage melodramatic pranks meant to convince our long‑suffering parents we’d met some tragic fate.

But there is something active youth with ingenuity can accomplish with just the absence of rope, with the mere suggestion of the presence of a rope, that can create entertainment for an entire soft summer evening in Clinton, Iowa.

The plan was to place two or three of us on each side of a quiet avenue and, when a car would come cruising along we would simultaneously, on each side of the avenue, pull together on an imaginary rope to see if the driver would fall for it as real, stand up on the brakes, and come to a screeching halt. What fun that would provide!

We gathered together under cover of darkness, thrilled with the idea of the fun we would have at some grownup’s expense. Economical amusement.

The first car came along and ignored our little theatre, cruising along slowly, the driver grinning at us and shaking his head. Time passed, and then a pickup truck came along, flashed his lights when we pulled on the phantom rope, and continued right on by.

More time passed. Another car came speeding along over the 25 mph speed limit, its mufflers rumbling with hot rod horsepower. We waited until it was close, then pulled as one, faces grimacing, small muscles contorting.

The midnight black GTO came to the screeching halt we had hoped for, overpowering the loud Chuck Berry’s “Sweet Little Sixteen” shouting from their radio. Our finger-pointing shouts of “Sucker! Sucker!” ended instantly as the driver’s door opened, and the shotgun door opened, and four hoodlums poured out, their oily hair and “D.A.” hairstyles proving they were tough guys, complete with their sleeveless black t-shirts, black jeans, and motorcycle boots.

The miscreants called us several shameful names, the least injurious being “Look at the chickens run” followed by clucking sounds and laughter.

We, mere fun-loving little rascals, scattered to the four winds. The greasers climbed back into their muscle car and sped away, honking the horn, Jerry Lee Lewis hurling “Balls of Fire” into the obsidian night. The neighborhood grew preternaturally silent. A porchlight flicked on, then off again.

Tom and I had sprinted two blocks away to avoid being pulverized, catching our breath and laughing so hard it hurt, a pristine example of gallows humor.

When breathing normalized and we stopped laughing, he said, “One of your better ideas, Bozo.”

“Thanks, but I wish we’d had a cherry bomb to toss inside their car,” I replied, flush with self-esteem from Tom’s compliment.

He looked at me. “You are one sick puppy, Carenen.”

I slept well that night, the abundance of praise from my friend ushering me into slumber.