“Let’s go egg the
fuck out of the Lubbers house,” Greg said, through closed teeth as he squeezed a rabbit’s foot into his palm.
“Egg that bitch back to the stone fucking age.” Greg had that wild light in his eyes, the same wild light I’d
seen the summer before when we’d spray-painted a dozen cows and then set them loose, letting the herd wander down the
middle of County 31, a curious parade of black and white cattle tattooed with red middle fingers, swastikas and dicks.
Greg was standing on a tree stump with his long fucked up arms raised
over his head, forming a kind of touchdown symbol but with tight fists. His Mao t-shirt was hiked up so I could see his fuck
you stomach tattoo and the fake gold Morningstar he always kept in his pants. The sun hovered over his head like a dream planet
made of mischief. I took another long hit of my Marlboro Light and, like I always do, let Greg slink around in a moment of
vandalism purgatory, letting him wonder if I’d sign on for this Lubbers egging. It was kind of a charade really. I always
signed up. But part of the tension, part of the anticipation, part of the completion and wholeness of the entire act rested
in the possibility of it not happening, the possibility that something dangerous and thrilling was not going to happen afterall.
The possibility that I’d say nah, I’m going over to Michigan Lanes to play some Donkey Kong.
Greg bounced tightly on the tree stump, full of volcanic anticipation.
He cracked his knuckles and bit his bottom lip, drawing a dab of blood. I sensed he was confident I’d already caved
so I flicked my cigarette into the creek, stood up slowly and yawned. Then I pulled my backpack onto my shoulders and checked
the time on the stopwatch that hung from one of its straps. Yawning and checking the time was not consistent with an overwhelming
eagerness to egg the Lubbers house, I figured.I saw Greg deflate slightly. I saw the amped up terror energy of his eyes disappear
and give way to a bored sadness, the eyes of someone resigned to spending yet another evening down in his grandmother’s
basement, tinkering with his Rubik’s Cube bomb or searching the darker corners of cyberspace for pictures of women fellating
ducks.
“I dunno,” I said, before turning ever so slightly towards the deserted road that led back home. “I was
thinking about heading over to Schwep’s house to get some pussy.”“Chad’s brother told me Cheri Schwep
has ass warts,” Greg said, as he jumped off the tree stump and approached me in full pitch. “Plus she’s
pregnant. I heard that retarded dude who works the cash register at Stromboni’s is the dad.”
He stood right in front of me with
a counter that look on his face.
I fake punched his face but he didn’t budge.
A beaver sat down in the creek.
We stole
four dozen eggs from Dimper’s while Ed Dimper sat with his legs up watching Montel on the black and white mounted above
the cigarettes. As we left I heard the door activate a ding-dong bell while Montel Williams said up next we’ll meet
grown men who have sex with mannequins.
The Lubbers house was a fading brick ranch that sat between a Jiffy Lube and a burnt grass park where people took
their dogs to shit and fight. Phil Lubbers hadn’t worked in years, but was sometimes seen out at the Home Depot, staring
at the house plants. His wife taught ESL at Covington and used to coach the junior varsity cheerleading squad, until two years
ago when some Christian families complained when she told the girls about losing her virginity to a bus mechanic named Marv.
But
Greg didn’t want to egg the fuck out of the Lubbers house because Phil Lubbers was semi-catatonic or because his wife
slept with Marv the mechanic; I knew why he wanted to egg the fuck out of the Lubbers house. He wanted to egg the fuck out
of the Lubbers house because the week before their only daughter Danita Lubbers told our entire sophomore class that Greg
only had one nut. Which was true. Greg only had one testicle.
We sat on a splintered wood bench in the dog park and planned our attack. The still hot sun showed
his high half above the Jiffy Lube. We shared a cigarette while a shirtless muscle guy watched his Pit Bulls mash and maul
a black baby doll head. We whispered even though we didn’t have to.
“Let’s egg this bitch while it’s still light so everyone can see,”
said Greg, while exhaling, passing me the cigarette and kind petting his Morningstar. “Send a warning,” he added,
with cryptic grandiosity. One of the Pits dove into a pile of woodchips and then furiously dug until he unearthed the junked
torso of the black baby doll. Then he jaw carried it to the muscle guy like he was delivering a precious velvet pillow or
a transplant heart.
“You’ve got to figure Phil Lubbers is home,” I said, before pointing to the jacked up Chevy truck in the
wide gravel driveway. The bloated tires were high and thick. The chrome bars glistened with false pride. The grille and its
menace faced the street. The bumper sticker read Somebody Loves You. “That’s his truck,” I said, while
burying the cigarette in the sand with my boot.
Greg grabbed my backpack and fondled the loose eggs inside before strapping the bag over his shoulder.
He pointed to a green porta potty positioned between the dog park and the house, then turned to me and mouthed the word lookout
before heading with a fake limp out towards the lots of trees street. The muscle guy shouted fight it out and tossed a slab
of uncooked meat towards his dogs, then turned his back on them and answered his cell phone with a sup. I got up and discreetly
walked over to my ‘lookout’ post next to the potty, perhaps seven or eight yards from the side of the Lubbers
house. I looked down into the side lawn and saw two black doll legs covered in ants and filth. Greg stood on the sidewalk
facing the house. He placed the backpack on the ground and then stood on one foot while stretching his leg and both arms out
in front of him.
A Karate Kid pose. He stuck his rolled tongue out and held it there while emitting a low-slung drone. I figured he didn’t
need me to be a lookout, just an audience. I didn’t turn to look but I heard the muscle guy shout only winners eat.
Greg held his stance for a few minutes but nobody worth warning was around to notice. A toddler boy on a Big Wheel looked
up for a moment before tearing inside his house with a finger lodged in his nose. Finally, Greg de-posed and then very deliberately
reached into my backpack and with some ceremony unveiled the first egg, cradling it with the two palms held out in front of
him. He bowed his head and closed his eyes in mock prayer. I coughed into my fist. The muscle laughed into his phone and said
bullshit, bitch.
Greg cocked his right hand back and fired
the egg and we both watched as it sailed over the Lubbers front lawn and the Lubbers house and finally the Lubbers backyard
and towards the Jiffy Lube, where it soft pitched into a parking lot hedge. Greg re-loaded while I looked through the side
window and into the Lubbers house and saw Phil Lubbers dressed in man pajamas easing into a torn brown recliner while turning
on his television with a walkie-talkie sized remote. Phil Lubbers had gray black bedhead hair and sad vacant eyes. The back
of his head was perhaps two feet from the front window so all he had to do was turn and look to see Greg and his eggs out
on the street. Phil Lubbers was watching a re-run of Happy Days.
I waved my hand to stop Greg but he didn’t see me and fired a fist of two eggs at the Lubbers
house. They both cracked and crushed into the front door and then oozed like lazy lava towards the Welcome mat. I cupped
my hands and whisper-shouted that Phil Lubbers was sitting in the front room, but Greg just laughed without making noise,
grabbed another egg and underhand tossed it into the air, letting it fall and splat onto the flat Lubbers roof. On the
Lubbers television I saw the Cunningham family sitting down for dinner. Ralph Malph was evidently a dinner guest. Marion Cunningham
was smiling while she placed an elegant roast in the center of the table. Mr. Cunningham indicated hunger and anticipation
by rubbing his hands together while viewing the roast and side dishes, some of which included mashed potatoes, broccoli, carrots
and something brown that resembled a cake. Phil Lubbers watched the Cunningham family dinner without expression.
“Phil Lubbers is sitting right there,” I called out to
Greg. Greg waved me off, whispered fuck Phil Lubbers and then wound up like a baseball pitcher and fired three eggs, all of
them thud thumping into the front window, just behind Phil Lubbers’ head. Boom, boom, boom. Deep low thuds. Muffled
grenades. But Phil Lubbers didn’t move. I heard the muscle guy call his dogs pussies.
On the television Mr. Cunningham wore a
white shirt and tie and appeared attentive as he listened to Ralph Malph gesture rather enthusiastically as he spoke. Ralph
was obviously quite exercised about the subject matter. Mrs. Cunningham smiled and nodded and passed a gravy ladle to Joanie
Cunningham. Richie Cunningham was grinning and at ease and wearing plaid. One of the Pit Bulls tore into the side lawn,
dug its teeth into the black baby doll legs and then sprinted away, leaving a mad trail of mud and funk sputtering behind.
Greg signaled with a head lift for me to watch and then chucked two handfuls of eggs at the Lubbers house. They hit the front
window hard and loud, like heavy night hail, and cracked the window diagonal from one corner to the other. I reflexively put
my hand over my mouth, trying without success to cover up the noise.
Phil Lubbers didn’t get up, didn’t even move or
turn his bedhead. Phil Lubbers just sat there with those distant sleepy eyes trained lifelessly on the Happy Days episode.
He and I both watched as Mr. Cunningham opened the front door of the Cunningham home and greeted with a blushing hug Arthur
Fonzarelli, who posed and preened in the entryway, evidently waiting for the audience applause to abate before speaking.
Now Greg was on bended knee, firing
egg after egg after egg at the Phil Lubbers home. He wore a tight heartless smile on his face while he mechanically reached
into the backpack with his right hand, tossed an egg, then reached down into the backpack and tossed another. Load, fire,
repeat. Load, fire, repeat. Over and over and over. Again and again and again. Egg after egg after egg after egg. Crack, crack,
crack. Not unlike one of those tennis ball machines. But more like an egg machine. A human one. The Phil Lubbers house was
under siege.
I looked behind me and saw the muscle guy and his panting dogs peeling away in an open top Trans-Am while blaring Living
On A Prayer.
I looked at Greg as he pummeled the Phil Lubbers house.
I looked at Phil Lubbers, whose soft head
appeared to be lit up like an angel underneath the glass pane of yellow egg smear. I cannot say for certain, but I believe
he may have smiled.
