“Wake up son,” a distant voice speaks to me.
I nuzzle deeper into the comfort of my sleeping bag, ignoring the seemingly far-away voice.
“Wake up.” This time a soft kick accompanies the voice.
I push my eyes open but don’t move from the sleeping bag. When I fell asleep it was dark outside, and now I feel the sunlight burning my eyes…sunlight. Pure, unadulterated sunlight. The kind that can only come from being outside. It is only now that I remember where I am and that what I’m doing is about get me in huge trouble.
“Get up, James Benner.”
That does it. Whoever is speaking knows who I am. I spring up to see that the person talking to me–none other than Vice Principal Dickson, casting his shadow on me in front of the rising sun
“What are you doing on my front lawn?” he asks with a cynical frown.
I open my mouth to reply that my friends and I camped out on his lawn last night for our Senior Prank…but there’s one problem: my friends are gone. They disappeared like the sun that has just hidden behind the clouds. It seems like my friends left me to spend the night by myself. I guess I was the one who got pranked.
“Well, er…I am…” I can’t get my words out when I’m nervous. And Dickson with his everlasting frown and unpleasant demeanor always makes me nervous, even though I’m a very good student. My friends often make fun of me for my “irrational” fear of Dickson. They say I shouldn’t worry, I’m a gifted student with a perfect disciplinary record- I’ve never even been to his office.
In spite of this, Dickson terrifies me.
Freshman year, I wore my favorite black hoodie to school with the hood up. Apparently, hoods are against the school’s dress code, but I wasn’t aware of this. Before anything happened, a dark shadow descended over me. Dickson, with all his terrifying intimidation, crept up behind me and put both hands on my shoulders. I instinctively jumped before his hands anchored me to my place.
His head felt close to mine, maybe an inch away, and he reeked of Sephora aftershave. Good God, that smell takes me back to that terrible morning like I’m a shell shocked veteran.
He spoke in a low, snobbish voice, saying, “You know, according to Article V, Section XVIII of the Butter Churner’s Code of Conduct, wearing hoods, hats, or any other head covering other than for religious purposes is strictly prohibited.”
My mouth went dry, my palms sweating. I trembled and choked back the urge to scream. My friends watched all of this go down, mesmerized and in shock, like watching a lion kill a zebra in a safari.
This memory plays in my mind like a Film Noir, the darkness of Dickson’s shadow unshakeable as my eyebrows furrow with the fear of history repeating itself.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out to Dickson, who stares down at me with his hands on his waist and his legs parted sharply in a V.
“I’m sure you are,” he says without emotion. “Explain yourself young Benner. Whatever excuse you have, better be good.”
“It is,” I assure him, “My f-friends thought it would be a g-g-good idea to sleep on your lawn for our senior p-p-p-puhrank.” When I’m nervous I’m a stuttering mess.
“And where are these friends of yours, Mr. Benner?”
I look around frantically, hoping they’ll somehow magically reappear and save me…but alas, they never do.
“I d-don’t know where they are right now,” I stuttered defensively, “But I think they luh-left me earlier in the morning to pull a prank on m-me.”
Dickson’s eyes close into slits and he rubs his chin with his hand. His focus on me never breaks.
“Interesting,” he says, “The plot thickens.”
“I’m serious,” I tell him, “I think they’re trying to be funny, but I didn’t know they were gonna do this.”
“Is this a retribution of some kind?”
“NO!” I say louder than expected, “No, we thought it would be funny-it’s a Senior Prank. I mean no one was hur–”
He raises his hand in a silencing gesture. I immediately cease my babbling and stare at him.
“You may call it a Senior Prank,” he speaks in that classic condescending tone, “I call it an instance of criminal trespassing.”
My mouth drops open in disbelief. I’m absolutely stunned silent.
“I am charging you in a court of law for criminal tresspassing, disorderly conduct, felony dwelling, invasion of privacy, loitering…”
The words become white noise as the clouds thicken and I slowly realize that my greatest fears are now manifesting. Dickson has me. The darkness has won.
“I am placing you under citizen’s arrest before the authorities arrive to take you away,” Dickson pulls a pair of handcuffs out of his pockets and approaches me.
“What? You can’t do this–”
“Yes, I can,” Dickson bellows in a terrifying voice, “Clause III Section XX of the New Jersey Citizen’s Defense Act gives me the right to detain you with necessary force if a felony was committed. AND ONE MOST DEFINITELY WAS!”
I’m shaking, terrified of what Dickson will do. The light of my existence will be snuffed out by one Senior Prank gone wrong.
Then I notice Dickson’s gaze shift away from me. He appears to be looking towards his front porch.
“Hey,” he calls sternly, “Hey, you stop that!”
He makes a b-line towards the porch, his sprint admittedly swift but hilariously unathletic. It’s impossible to tell who he’s talking to or why he’s running…as there is no one on his porch.
“Yes, you stop that,” he says when he gets to the porch. He’s pointing an unwavering finger at a squirrel.
The squirrel holds an acorn in its paws and stares back at Dickson, the newly uncovered sun adding a mischievous glint to its eyes.
“Is that an acorn you’re holding, young man?” he asks the squirrel, “You know you’re not permitted to consume acorns on a New Jersey citizen’s property. Such an action is considered unregulated foraging and punishable with a fine of up to five hundred dollars.”
Unregulated foraging. I’ll be damned.
As Dickson yells at the squirrel and gets a game warden on the phone, I decide to silently escape. With the sleeping bag in the crook of my arm, and the bright sun beating down, I race back to my car, which I parked at the end of his street.
In the safety of my car I laugh madly, finally recognizing the sheer absurdity of this situation. Ol Dickson, the man who I once saw as a figure of bureaucratic darkness now brings me jovial light when I hear his name.
