Don't Get Caught(32)

Boyd toasts Wheeler with his beer.

“I didn’t hit bottom,” Boyd says, “that would be John Mantooth—no, seriously, that’s his name—who’s been in jail the last twelve years, but I was close. And look at me now, living the dream. My own boss, a beer when I want it, no old lady dragging me down. I couldn’t have planned it any better if I’d tried. So is this a social call or business?”

Isn’t it annoying how adults can sense whenever you want something?

I say, “Do you remember a bird attack happening at your senior picnic?”

“Oh man,” Boyd half shouts. “The bird-shit picnic! That was the highlight of senior year.”

“How did they make the birds crap on cue like that?” Wheeler asks. “I mean, how do you command a flock of birds to do anything?”

Boyd goes to his minifridge and pulls out another beer.

“Ah, one of the few things I learned in school. Is Mr. Huntley still there teaching psych? He explained it all to us on the final day. The trick, he said, was conditioning.”

Wheeler and I both make a face.

“You haven’t had psych yet? Oh man, you have to take it. It’s a total mind screw. Conditioning is used to train someone—or in this case, birds. Huntley said he figured someone went out to the intramural fields for months, spread birdseed, then blew a whistle. Eventually, the birds in the woods understood that the whistle meant food was available. So when the senior picnic came, someone blew that whistle and—presto!—birds doing what birds do, raining down shit.”

Wheeler says, “Man, that took some serious commitment.”

“Oh, they were serious about it all right. It doesn’t sound like the group now does nearly anything as elaborate. Cows on the roof? Seen it. Painting the water tower? Bush league, man. But the Chaos Club then, they were proud of that tradition.”

“Wheeler’s the one who set up the student body boner pic,” I say.

Boyd toasts our way. “See, that’s what I’m talking about—creativity and dedication. That’s what goes into an epic prank. But do you know the most impressive thing? I’ll bet if you asked people at my next reunion what they remember from high school, they’ll struggle to name their teachers or what classes they took, but they’ll know every last detail from those pranks. That’s what called creating a legacy.”

“Stranko’s probably never forgot it,” I say.

“Well, the thing you wouldn’t know is that for part of high school, Stranko was actually pretty cool to hang out with. He was a joker—not on the level of me or your dad, but funny, good to be in class with because he kept things light. He was an athletic beast too, especially at lacrosse. And, man, the girls loved him, probably because he was one of the few guys who would actually bust a move at the school dances. That guy could really get down. I was jealous as hell. Because if you guys haven’t figured it out yet, girls love a guy who will dance.”

“Wait a minute,” Wheeler says. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Dwayne Stranko? Tall, bald, looks like Sloth from The Goonies?”

“That’s the one,” Boyd says. “He had hair then, of course, but yeah, he was a good guy.”

“Well, that’s not the Dwayne Stranko we know,” I say.

“You can blame his parents for that. They were never what you’d call friendly people—you sure as hell didn’t want to go over to the Stranko house—but they mostly let Dwayne do his thing. Then at the end of our sophomore year, he got busted with some guys trespassing at the city pool, drinking beer and doing stupid stuff—throwing chairs in the deep end, raiding the concession stand, you get the idea. Supposedly when the cops showed up, Stranko was standing naked on the high dive serenading everyone with ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’”

“Not an image I needed,” Wheeler says.

“No doubt,” Boyd says. “After that night, Dwayne disappeared for the entire summer. When we got back to school in the fall, he was different—buzzed hair, sitting up straight in class, paying attention and never joking. Some people thought he’d been sent to military camp. But his mom and dad didn’t have a lot of money, so I doubt that. My guess is his parents shut him down completely, molded him into exactly what they wanted.”

“Someone obedient,” I say.

“Right, and when parents try to do that to a kid, they usually win, unless the kid is really strong. Whatever happened to Stranko, he wouldn’t talk about it. I do know the lacrosse coach benched him for the first half of the season our junior year though, which hurt his scholarship chances. Stranko became super serious then and only got worse from there. By our senior year, man, the guy was unbearable. It was bad enough that he was so uptight, but it got to the point where he demanded it from everyone else. Flash forward twenty years, and I can only imagine how awful he is now that he has power. He wasn’t always that way though. Not that it excuses his being an *.”

“Which he is,” Wheeler says.

There’s more talk about Stranko and some talk about the Chaos Club, but not much. Mostly it’s Boyd drinking beer and showing us around the barn, telling us how he obtained certain junky items. We leave after twenty minutes, and on our way back to town, there’s no gushing from Wheeler about how cool Boyd and the barn are like I assumed there would be. In fact, Wheeler’s not talking at all. Instead, he has the radio on and doesn’t even bother changing the channel when commercials come on, like usual.