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The Great Toilet Paper Incident of 1997

October 31, 2004

I went skimming through the archives here at northoftheborder and came across something in the comments I have been meaning to write about for some time. The comments I'm speaking of are found starting here where my good buddy Kevin makes a reference, with a few follow ups. Aunt Maxine's not the only one in the dark about this story, few know all the details. Until today...

When I was young and growing up in Warner Robins, Georgia, we loved to go TPing. Toilet Papering houses that is, and we were darn good at it. You haven't lived until you felt a toilet paper roll leave your hand just right, flying into the black of two in the morning and gently hanging perfectly over a tall, Georgia pine. There is a sound it makes too, like a flag in gusty winds, then a soft thump as a still loaded roll hits the grass, ready for another fling skyward. And when you and a small band of your friends are trying to be as quiet as possible, it's a beautiful thing to hear, even if you wince a bit each time it strikes the ground, with the sound resembling a punted football, freezing to see if there is movement from the house.

I grew up with the masters, and came to perfect my technique alongside men with names like Causey and Largaespada. But in the spring of '97, with my old partners off to college, a new breed was emerging. I was to teach them. Before, TPing was a quick, spontaneous act to them. To me it was art, carefully planned and executed. I was just waiting for an opportunity. Then, as our family drove into our driveway after a weekend out of town, opportunity came knocking in the form of a weak strike against my own house from some friends (females) in our senior class, clearly amateur work. It was time to take my new team out for a mission.

The team: Four of the "Fab Five" as we ridiculously called ourselves then; Kevin, Cameron, Bo and myself. Also along for the ride was Chris, another friend of ours from school. We had the perfect date in mind. You see, TPing was weekend work, when you could stay out late and not get people too wrangled up about a little tomfoolery. But it also got little pub, the talk quieting come Monday, and we wanted to make a splash. All of us seniors save one, we decided we would strike on the thursday night before Senior Skip Day, using my house for headquarters. That way we could come back and bask in our pride as the rest of Warner Robins drove toward work and school, many of them right by our intended targets. It was perfect.

But the date wasn't the only thing that was different. We decided to push the envelope even further to not only include TP, but also assorted items we found around town that in our judgment would make nice new lawn furniture for our targets. You'll notice I said targets, not target, as we weren't satisfied with just one conquest, we wanted to make a statement. We would hit the houses of both parties involved in the original melee at my place.

We started out late on Thursday evening gathering the needed supplies; some 150 rolls of toilet paper, and shoe polish and saran wrap for the cars. Next, it was on to collect our lawn furniture, our first test. Our plan was simple. Go to the rough part of town, the projects, and look for discarded furniture left along the roadside for trash pickup. It was a goldmine. Old televisions, living room sets, bookshelves, you name it. We made a few passes to load up the back of my truck with the needed items. Then, our first near mistake. We got greedy. On the last pass I had noticed an old television and wanted to go back for it. Chris was riding shotgun and hopped out of the car. The neighborhood was dark and eery, still full of noise at that hour. I watched Chris nervously as he reached down and began lifting the TV. Suddenly he dropped it and before I realized what was happening he was in the passenger seat yelling, "GO! GO! They're coming after me!" Just as he said that, the other car of our little caravan sped away and we did as well, hearts pounding out of our chest.

We weaved through the back streets all the way back to my house, fearful of being seen by the cops with the goods in the bed of the truck, which now included a plastic, orange and white sawhorse from a local construction site. Finally within the safe boundaries of our quiet neighborhood, we waited.

When the time was just right, we set out for our first, and most difficult, house. It was on a major two-lane thoroughfare, where in hours many of our friends would be driving on their way to school. We started cautiously, diving behind bushes and trees when the occasional car came by. We spent 30 minutes at the house and to this day I have no idea how we did not get caught.

Feeling satisfied with our work, we fell back into the warmth and safety of the neighborhood, towards the second target which was out of the way and easy pickens, or so we though. Then came the real mistake of the evening, and again it was greed. We weren't satisfied with the living room furniture now adorning their lawn, or the trees covered in toilet paper until they resembled something from a winter picture. We wanted more, and with TP to spare, we began lofting it back and forth over the peak of the house in joyfull glee. Then, a throw came up inches short and with a thud hit the shingles and gutter of the roof. In the quiet of the early morning, it sounded like a hammer against steel. We froze. Then, as a light came on and the front door swung open, we ran to our awaiting cars and disappeared into the night, laughing outside and freaking out inside. We regrouped at my house, with the kind of scared excitement that you can only feel when you are 17 or 18 years old. After a while we cooled down, convinced that maybe they didn't get a good look at us, or didn't care. Either way, we did it. Mission accomplished.

We fell asleep in my room, which was the converted basement of our house. One of the five, Bo, had slept at another house, and yet another, Cameron, had went to school early to hand in a paper. He returned at around nine, waking us up with stories of how the entire school was a buzz with the previous night's festivities. We were kings.

It was just about that time that a knock came to the door above the stairs that led to my room. Just as the knocking stopped the door swung open, and my mom yelled down that someone was at the front door asking for me. Confused, I asked who it was. She responded, "Brad, there is an officer here to see you." Now, if you know my mother, she will joke around here and there, and my friends knew it. We smelled a rat. Laughing it off, we began getting up and around, thinking it was mom's way of calling us for breakfast. Then, a loud voice which I will never forget came from just beyond my mom. "Ma'am, do I need to come get them?"

We shot looks at each other with eyes like saucers. We quickly galloped up the stairs, hoping to find that the voice was some kind of sick joke, only to look upon perhaps the most intimidating police officer I have ever seen waiting on the front porch. Tall and clad in black with plastic rim glasses and one of those round, straight billed caps that officers in the south wear, he was a huge, terrifying man. He began roll call, systematically calling out our names as we each signaled with a raised, quivering hand. It's amazing when you are young and under pressure, sometimes it gets the best of you. When the officer inquired on the whereabouts of Bo, we all shrugged our shoulders in faux ignorance. All except Kevin, who quickly blurted out the exact address of where he was staying, even offering to show the officer where it was. The rest of us looked on in amazement, jaws hanging open.

He pulled us out onto the porch, 3 of us still in boxers and t-shirts, and began berating us without mercy. He didn't have time for this, there was better use of taxpayer's money, on and on. He asked who the ringleader of the little operation was. Everyone began mumbling to the effect that their was no real "ringleader', all the while looking at me. Youth and pressure. My heart sank. He looked me squarely in the eyes and asked about the furniture. I panicked, feeling what Kevin must have felt just moments earlier. Then, I lied. "We took it from the dump", I said. "Did you have the owner's permission to take it?", he shot back. My chin to my chest, I mumbled out, "No, sir".

Then, he began to dictate the charges to us: vandalism, theft of property. This is when things got really scary. Somewhere in his little speech we heard the word "felony". We hadn't signed up for this. We stood there, on a warm spring morning in Southern Georgia, shaking like leaves in the wind. Just as he was about to take us to the car and read us our rights, we saw our friend Katie, who lived in the second targeted house, popup from behind the blue and weight patrol car and snap a picture.

The officer, now obviously a part of this little charade (we later found out he was a family friend of Katie's), broke out in laughter as we hit the cold concrete of the front porch, for the first time in minutes able to take full, deep breaths as if we had just been rescued from a near drowing, all gasping for air. They had got us, and got us good. We composed ourselves and chatted with the officer, who all of a sudden seemed like the nicest guy we'd ever met, even telling us of his experience as a young man TPing. We got this classic picture moments later. (From left to right: Kevin, Chris, The Officer, Myself and Cameron. Click on the picture to see the larger version)

We slinked back inside with the same excited/scared feeling we had just experienced hours before. My mom was in on it too, the officer had tipped her off when he arrived at the door. No one had told my sister, who was upstairs and as scared as we were. The fellas and I sat down to breakfast, but none of us ate more than a bite or two, quite a sight if you had seen us eat before. I'll never forget watching my friends and I try to pour orange juice, our hands shaking so much we almost missed the glass.

I'll never forget that night, or Sarah and Katie, who stung us back in the worse way. I'm not 17 anymore, and have virtually lost touch with all but one of the four who were there that night. I still think about it every once and again, though. A simpler time with great friends and a harrowing night where if nothing else, we felt alive.

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