Lawrence Hittle
05-17-2012, 01:58 AM
JIM’S GRANDDAUGHTER
The Foolish Art Of Throwing Pies: Part One
It was an early-1970's Memorial Day float-and-bloat weekend, an annual tradition. The group of friends had put in their inner tubes at a place called Best Beach on Pennsylvania’s Loyalsock Creek a few miles above the suspension bridge that lead to the Boy Scout camp. Thirty die hard floaters, a keg of Bud, and fifty pounds of shrimp were ready to float and bloat their way down the creek past the early summer throngs who would be relaxing barefooted in lawn chairs and airing out their creek side cabins as the summer season officially
opened.
Billy Joe Poolhocker, Gary Glitter, the Buttsfolks, the Necque, Edna Beets, those Horrible Hittle Boys, Pam and Jimmy V., many others, and all their dogs would make the first float of the year. Unfortunately, Warren Pinecone and his wife, Doty, wouldn’t be able to make the trip from New Hampshire to join them. A young summer was in the air. Temperatures hovered near the mid-60’s as the trees still wore the light green of their fresh spring foliage, but the water temperature still bore the chill of a winter just passed. Nonetheless, Hawaiian shirts, worn like the blazing flags of summer, cut-offs, and wrap-around sunglasses would make the floaters seen long before they were heard. Dogs on laps, butts in tubes, keg tapped and mounted in its own float, shrimp aboard, and individual rides tethered to the keg tube, the floatilla cast itself to the fate of the current with the promise of good friends creating good times.
Jim was one of the folks who owned a cabin on the banks of the creek. He was a good natured sort; a tall, thin, sharp-witted, fifty-two year old man who made his living as an aircraft parts inspector at Lycoming Aircraft. He had aired out his cabin the day before and had his first cup of coffee with the Sunday paper before deciding to try his luck at fishing down by the old suspension bridge that connected the highway to the island where his cabin and the Boy Scout camp were located. The sun had been up long enough to burn off the early chill, so he slipped on his hip boots, swallowed the last of the warm coffee in his Jetsons mug, draped a bamboo creel over a faded green fishing vest, grabbed his Fenwick, and tapped his favorite hat onto his balding head as he closed the cabin door behind him on his way to test his skills. As Jim was ambling among the rocks to get down to the creek, a small compact car made a U-turn at the suspension bridge and parked facing downstream along the edge of the road.
Fifteen folks with chattering blue lips had floated down the creek for almost three hours. The shrimp was long gone and ol’ Bud had a pretty good dent put in him. Nobody was feeling any real pain but everybody was cold as hell. The end of the ride just couldn’t come soon enough for most of the floaters. They had streamed past cabin after cabin and waved at people they didn’t know for most of the afternoon. Laps were scratched and scored from dogs who repeatedly got on and off. The ride in the sunny stretches was most enjoyable and leisurely as the water slowed to pass through deep pools that lived in the slate canyons that were home to the stream but the slow pace through sunless stretches had chilled them to the bone. The pace was much too slow for most. Somewhere up around the bend was a last stretch of warming sunshine and the suspension bridge that marked the end of their voyage.
Two people got out of the car that had pulled the U-turn and parked along the side of the road. The woman was a tall wispy blonde who wore tight blue jeans cuffed at the ankle like a pair of clam diggers, and a checkered burgundy flannel shirt that loosely hung over a powder blue tee shirt that fit her thin frame like a glove. He wore a pair of khaki shorts, a red tee shirt, and a long-sleeved dark blue zippered sweatshirt, was fit but thin, and had dark facial hair and a maniacal sense of humor. Fists on hips, he arched backwards to stretch his spine, then the two of them joined hands and strolled out onto the bridge to take in the creek and look over the scenery. They laughed about something when she grabbed onto his arm with both hands for stability as they walked farther out onto the swaying span that was made of planks and ropes and tied together with the signature of Boy Scout knots. Two thirds of the way across, they stopped and looked upstream as if they were waiting for something to appear on the water. From their vantage point they could see three-fourths of a mile, or twenty five minutes of floating time, up the creek … plenty of time to take action. Below them all was quiet and peaceful. A man in his fifties wearing silver wire-rimmed glasses and a bamboo creel was knee-deep making ready to cast his first choice of flies at waiting trout. He wore a faded green vest and a tattered beige fishing cap that was squat with a two inch brim that went all around the perimeter. He was self-absorbed in his efforts and didn’t pay much attention to the two sightseers thirty feet above him. As he cast his fly below, the couple made their way back to the car parked at the side of the road. He opened her door and as she slid inside, he made his way to the back of the car where he popped open the trunk. Out-of-state plates on the rear of the car rose to eye level as the lid of the trunk raised up. Inside were the usual things: jack, spare, flashlight, Hawaiian shirt, picnic basket, pump, deflated tube (child-size), latex swim cap, coconut cream pie, goggles, bathing trunks, plastic child’s beach bucket, and a blanket. He grabbed the picnic basket, returned the trunk lid to the closed position, and took his seat behind the wheel as she finished loading a fresh roll of film into her camera. The key was inserted into the ignition and turned to the accessory position so they could listen to the radio while they ate their lunch. Chicken salad sandwiches, an apple split between the two of them, a pack of Archway oatmeal raisin cookies, and a couple of semi-cold Diet Cokes hit the spot as they waited. Fifteen minutes would pass while they ate their lunch. Jim would go through two unsuccessful fly patterns and work his way far enough upstream that he was now situated between the suspension bridge and the floaters who were somewhere farther up the creek, around the bend, and still out of sight.
As the end of their journey approached, the float and bloaters had pretty much decided to go their individual ways in an attempt to get downstream and out of the chill waters as quickly as possible. Most had untethered from the keg as the group approached the last set of shallow riffles they would have to negotiate. They were about three fourths of a mile from the jumping out point and in about 30 minutes, thirty summer celebrators would be hauling their chapped and scratched skin out of the water and onto dry land. Except for the numbness they all felt, the voyage had been a successful early summer excursion. Lots of stories had been shared, everybody got caught up and had a full belly, and it seemed that everyone had a good time. Stupid smiles curled across their blue lips. A few of the floaters found a quick way through the rapids and headed toward the bridge while the others stayed behind to guide the dogs and the keg through the last obstacle they would encounter before the final stretch home. The last half hour would be in full sunlight instead of cold shadows and most would take advantage of it by laying outstretched and oblivious on their tubes. Ol’ Bud had done his job. They were toast. The sun would feel good. All made their way through the final obstacle and were now stretched out to take advantage of the warming sun. No longer a group, they were spread from shore to shore on their final leg of the journey and drifted like brightly colored leaves on the water.
Jim had worked his way another fifteen or twenty yards upstream and was now fishing from a small shale platform that jutted out into the stream. Behind him and to his right was a shallow pool of calm water that was unaffected by the current. On the edge of the pool was a small sandy flat spot that would serve as a beach. Doty had taken a position half way across the bridge to act as a lookout while Warren forced the last few pumps of air into his kiddy tube. She had her binoculars held up to her eyes to scan the creek for signs of the floaters. A Nikon with a long telephoto lens hung from her neck. Warren was now busy shaving, adjusting the car’s rear view mirror to get a better view to make sure that he removed just the left sideburn and only the right half of his dark bushy moustache and beard. He wanted to look as depraved as possible. A stupid grin spread across his face and he nicked his cheek as he laughed to himself with anticipation. Good pranks peppered this group’s history, the more elaborate and stupid, the better. This one would be a classic.
A bright yellow shirt spilled through the rapids upstream, at the bend in the creek, and was shortly followed by another tuber wearing his summer flag of blazing orange and blue. Doty’s eye caught the bright splashes of color and signaled to Warren that it was time. Warren huried himself and wiped the remaining foam from his face, shot her an acknowledging smile, and quickened his preparative pace. The long drive from New England would soon yield dividends and the lies they told about not being able to make it to the reunion would add the element of total surprise. It was time to have fun.
Jim was well into his fifth fly pattern. He wasn’t having much luck fishing from his shale perch and was so deep in thought that he barely noticed as Warren spread the blanket on the little sandy strip that lined the edge of the calm pool behind him. However, as he peered over the edge of his glasses while trying to select his next fly, Jim couldn’t help but take notice of a grown man with only half a goatee and one sideburn in a bright Hawaiian shirt stuffing his hair into a little girl’s pink bathing cap and pumping the last few bursts of air into a Beany and Cecil inner tube. Jim forgot about fishing and took a step back from the edge of the water to look at what was happening at his feet. He mumbled something to himself and furrowed his brow as Warren submerged himself in the water, made a spot in the tube for his pie, and gave Jim a wink and a “how ya doin’?” Jim and Warren were on the side of the creek farthest from the road. That was perfect because Doty had determined that Warren’s target was half way between the bridge and the riffles and was drifting along the same shore as Warren and his newly found friend. Jim pushed his hat back half a notch, tucked his rod under his left arm, squinted an eye and first looked at the girl on the bridge, then at the thing at his feet, and finally upstream. The parts inspector was smirking and chortling to himself as he put two and two together and pretended to look for a better fly in the box that he had pulled from his pocket. His smirk turned into a toothy but quiet grin as he gave Warren a knowing nod. Warren put a finger to his lips, gave him a smiling “sh-h-h-h”, and waded out a little farther into the water.
The worst of the Horrible Hittle boys, Larry, was stretched out on his tube enjoying the last five minutes of his float. For years, he had been the instigator in many of their friendly pranks. This year, it was time to turn the tables. The bridge was well in sight, and the two o’clock sun was warming his belly and the tops of his legs. His dog, Jeff Wheeler, had jumped off his lap and paddled to shore leaving a few new scratches on his legs as she departed. He would be left alone to enjoy the last few drunken moments of the day. His eyes fell from the lone person on the bridge to the figure of a solitary fisherman on his rock perch and his granddaughter playing in the water under his watchful eye. The fisherman had his rod tucked under one arm and was searching for a fly in the little brass box he held in his left hand. As the floater approached, Jim peeked over the silver rims, smiled, and waved an acknowledging pointer finger at him. The floater waved back as he had done all day and asked, “Catchin’ any?” … “Nope, not yet” came the reply as the little girl’s inner tube drifted away from the safety of the calm water and out into the three foot deep channel at her grandfather’s feet. Jim was smiling as the tuber got closer to the floater. As his “granddaughter” drifted farther out from his perch, Jim’s smile became a little bit broader. Beany and Cecil and the little pink swimming cap drifted closer and closer to the relaxing Horrible Hittle boy. Only the top of the swim cap and a pair of swimmer’s goggles protruded above the edge of the little girl’s tube as she innocently closed the gap between the two floatation devices. Hittle was oblivious when Warren struck. Warren had drifted unnoticed to within a foot of his target then stood up in three feet of water and smacked his unsuspecting victim with a coconut cream pie that completely smothered him. The only thing Hittle caught was a glimpse of a half moustache, a maniacal grin, swimming goggles, and a Beany and Cecil inner tube wrapped around the torso of a flailing hit man who was screaming at the top of his lungs like a depraved asylum lunatic. Doty captured it all on film as laughter and applause filled the canyon. They had all been in on it from day one … except for Horrible Hittle. They got him good! Even Jim applauded. He was proud of his little granddaughter as he whipped new life into his Fenwick and cast a coachman out onto the water ….
The rouge coconut cream pie delivery by Warren and Doty was a classic but the story that follows would take the Foolish Art Of Throwing Pies into uncharted territory with outstanding dividends.
Throwing pies was always acceptable within the circle of Horrible friends. As the years passed, pie throwing would become a refined art, with established rules, and reserved exclusively for birthdays.
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THE ORGAN GRINDER’S MONKEY
The Foolish Art Of Throwing Pies: Part Two
On your birthday, two things can happen .... Your friends can sing “Happy birthday to you”. The cheery little song ends. You make a wish. You blow out the candles, smile a while, and collect best wishes and a birthday kiss or two. You open your presents, eat cake, and viola … your birthday is complete.
Or: for the advanced celebrator, you can play by the Rules Of The Hunt.
24 hours. That’s how long a birthday lasts. It's open season from midnight to midnight. The weapon is a pie. The prey is the birthday boy or girl. There is one, or many hunters, all trying to pie the prey without being caught in the act ... all day long … at work, in the gym, in church, in a dentist chair, etc. If the weapon or assailant is seen by the prey in the act of delivery, and before it hits, the hunted may point at the attacker and yell, “Pie-e-kari!”, (like hari-kari) and the hunter must honorably pie himself. It pays to be a clever hunter. It pays to be a vigilant target. Throughout the years, some very creative schemes would be devised .
In 1980, the two oldest Horrible Hittle boys would find themselves relocated in Colorado. Larry would hatch a plot to pie his brother, Carl, on his birthday with the help of their new roommate, Fletcher Browne, and although not as elaborately planned as the Warren and Doty caper, this episode would prove to be one of the more memorable.
Larry and Carl had just moved to Denver after a three year stretch on Chicago’s south side where they refurbished a Victorian hotel, opened a restaurant, and took in a lot of White Sox baseball games. The date was 8 November, 1980. Three guys, Fletcher Browne, Larry Hittle and Carl Hittle lived in a townhouse on Denver’s southeast side. The Horrible Hittle boys were fledgling employees in a young mining company. Fletch was selling insurance and chasing the Amway dream. He was meticulous. He wanted to attain “pearl” status in the Amway pyramid in the worst way. The doors of the kitchen cabinets were tacked with little you-can-do-it stickers. Milk cartons in the fridge bore all-the-way-with-Amway reminders. Fletch was hooked. Go Fletch, go … sell that soap!
Fletch was well-schooled in the rules of the hunt, in fact, he had pulled off one of the greatest pie-e-karis on record. Fletcher had a birthday in the previous June. The three of them had signed up for an after work, summer bowling league. Carl and Fletch went to bowl, Larry feigned illness. Larry was hiding in the shrubbery outside of the Denver bowling center waiting for Fletch to exit as the league activities ended. He had taken his shoes off so he could run up silently from the bushes and pie Fletch when he least expected it. He had a pie in each hand. Fletcher was half way to his car in the parking lot. Larry was silently sneaking up behind him, running full speed, a pie in each hand. At the last second, Fletch turned to check behind him, saw Larry in full flight, yelled "Pie-e-kari!" and Larry, never breaking stride, smacked himself with two coconut cream earmuffs and flailed off into the setting sun. Fletcher was ecstatic and while he was jumping up and down in the parking lot celebrating his victory, Carl pulled a hidden coconut cream beauty from his bowling bag and delivered a perfect strike to an unsuspecting Fletcher. Larry had crawled on his stomach through the bowling center to put this reserve pie in place just in case he got caught trying to make the hit. It was beautiful. Two guys, covered in pie, oh my! Carl got Fletch good. Payback would be fun. When they all got home, Fletch put a red circle around November 8th on his calendar... Carl's birthday. Six months had passed. That day was finally here.
Carl had amazing bladder control. He could simultaneously talk, smoke a cigarette, and walk the entire length of a Chicago city block while urnating and never break the stream. However, when the urge to go arose, it could not be suppressed. All three had gone to work that day. The Hittle boys put on their shirts and ties to look nice in the building that housed the oil and mining business where they were employed. Fletch spent an hour on his hair to get it to look exactly like John Davidson’s, sold some insurance, and had a great day thinking about how he would get revenge. The Horrible Hittle boy’s jobs were located south of Denver where all the new money was centered. Along with elaborate office buildings, the south side erected numerous watering holes for folks to frequent when work was done. Tonight, Larry would treat his brother to a few birthday drinks before they headed home. It was his duty to make sure the birthday boy’s pie-sensing radar was dimmed so they stopped at Brinkers on the way home for Wild Turkey two-fers and some chicken wings. When finished, the two sated Hittles continued on their way home where they would hook up with Fletch and continue the evening’s celebration. Fletch had preached the goodness of Amway for the hour that followed his real job. He was now in his green Toyota GT, tie loosened, and on his way home.
Low hanging clouds had tried all day to dump their snow on Denver but all they could muster was a meager dusting. Fletch pulled into the garage leaving a thin set of tire tracks in the snow on the driveway. He checked his answering machine to see if anybody needed Amway products, swapped one v-neck sweater or another, pushed in a Neil Diamond cassette and waited for the Horrible brothers to arrive. A few minutes later, his two roommates pulled into the driveway. The thin tracks in the snow told them that Fletch was already home and that they would probably be walking into a Neil Diamond concert. Both kicked the slush from their shoes and entered Fletcher’s townhouse. Carl opened the fridge just to look at the milk carton and laughed. Neil Diamond was in the air. Yep, they were home all right. Carl's Wild Turkey buzz just made it seem more ridiculous. It wasn’t long before Fletch descended the stairs. He was ready to get rowdy, raised an eyebrow, and gave Larry an inquiring nod without Carl seeing it. The hunt was on. Larry nodded back. He lied and told Carl and Fletch that he wanted to take a shower and change clothes before going out that night. Fletch picked up on the cue and suggested that Larry meet the two of them at a nearby watering hole in about half an hour and so it was agreed that all three would rendezvous at Bennigan’s in thirty minutes. Fletch and Carl left while the remaining Horrible Hittle went to work preparing the tools of a piemeister. Although impaired, Carl would still be a tough target. He had survived numerous attempts in the past and would be wary of obvious tactics. Tonight would require something special, something simple yet effective, to get past his radar. The piemeister had just the ticket.
The image of the eight, circled in red, was still in the back of Fletcher’s mind as he pulled into the Bennigan’s parking lot. He wasn’t quite sure what was going to happen but he felt confident that all was in good hands and that he would not be disappointed. A sketchy plot between Larry and Fletch had been hatched earlier in the week. It was now Fletcher’s turn to make sure that the target would be sufficiently impaired to shut down his pie-sensing capacity. He would be successful in his mission. The mixture of Wild Turkey and multiple pitchers of beer would result in a combination of mild oblivion and perfect bladder manipulation. Back at the house, things were progressing quickly. Larry’s everyday winter coat was a red, three-quarter length puffy ski jacket that came down to the bottom of his pants pockets. It was laid out on the floor with both front panels pulled back to reveal the inner lining on the back of the jacket. He was busy sewing a 15x15 piece of flannel material to the inside of the coat to form a secret pocket between the waist and the bottom of the garment. This secret pocket was large enough to hold one boxed banana cream pie that he had purchased the day before and thawed under the living room couch for an entire day. The alteration required ten minutes. Insertion of the boxed pie, open end up, took another minute. Driving time would be less than ten minutes. Perfect.
Shiny brass fixtures and cascading ferns lent a swank touch to the Bennigan’s decor without spoiling the family atmosphere. Half of the comfy booths and only a few of the oak bar stools were occupied. Fletch and Carl were at the far end of the bar, their backs to the wall so they could watch who entered through the front door… like gamblers holding aces and eights. Carl was on guard but sloppy. Fletch was doing a great job. It was easy to tell. Carl was using his cigarette like a pointer to drive home his thoughts while his eyes were staying closed longer than usual as he searched his mind to find just the right words to express what he was thinking. The "slow blink" was his worst tell. The target was ready as his brother walked in the door. Fletch saw Larry and signaled from the bar. Piemeister stomped the snow from his shoes and made his way to the empty stool next to his brother who was eyes-closed, deep in thought. Carl felt his presence but was slow to react. He turned, one hand up defensively, instinctively, to shield himself from incoming pies. Piemeister thought about it but chose to await for a better opportunity. He took his jacket off and hung it over the back of his stool. The bomb was out of sight, close at hand, and ticking should he need it. Upon passing Carl's initial security scan, all three bellied up to the bar to have another one. One lead to another and pretty soon all of them were in a happy fog. They decided to retire to one of those comfy booths where the seating would be more to their liking. The birthday boy slid in first, up next to the wall. The piemeister sat to his left, effectively boxing him in. The red jacket was laid opened, across Larry's lap, under the table. Fletch sat across from them. He was wearing a pleasant grin and having trouble concealing it. Something was about to happen. He could feel it. Tick, tick, tick … the bomb was ticking. Tick, tick, tick … the bladder was filling. Tick, tick, tick … the hit on Fletcher in the parking lots months earlier was excellent, but nobody could imagine what was about to happen to Carl.
The trio tried their best to read their menus and pretty soon a smiley red haired waitress came by with her tray to take their order. Carl crouched low in his seat to get a glimpse under her tray, looking for a pie, to make sure an assassin had not been hired, a tactic that had been successful in the past. Satisfied he was safe, the target lit up a cigarette and settled into the corner of his booth while their basket of nachos was being prepared. His bladder was now full as he leaned to his left, blinked very slowly, and thoughtfully requested to be excused. Piemeister refused to budge and flashed a disinterested response. Carl blinked slowly and stared straight ahead, numbly, at Fletch as if to say, “Didn’t he hear me?” He leaned once again to his left and slurred, “C’mon, man, I gotta pee.” Again, Carl’s request was met with indifference. What Carl didn’t see was the piemeister’s left hand disappearing into the secret pocket.
Carl’s bladder was full to capacity and uncomfortable. He would have to resort to drastic measures. He put out his cigarette, straightened his back, bellied up to the table, discretely unzipped his fly, and pulled himself out of his pants. Leaning to his left, he once again asked his brother to be excused and, glancing down at his own groin, added that if he was not excused, Larry would receive a surprise. Larry raised an eyebrow, leaned back, and looked down to his right. Little brother was threatening to pee all over him underneath their table. “No, little brother, I have a surprise for you!” and as Carl was doing a slow thoughtful blink, the piemaster nailed him with a banana cream beauty that sealed every facial nook and cranny with tasty ooze. It was a full face hit and made a beautiful suffocating noise. Fletch erupted! Neither of them saw it coming. The folks in the next booth dropped their eating utensils and burst into laughter as the force of the hit splattered a halo of pie on the wall behind the target. Heads turned as others tried to catch a glimpse of what was happening. Carl sat in silent shock, amazed. Two crusted eyes opened and stared out through the creamy offering. He placed a newly lit cigarette between his coated lips, took a drag, exhaled, and without wiping away a single fragment, thoughtfully queried, “Where did you get that pie????!!!” A "slow blink" followed. By now, Fletcher had completely lost it. He was lying down in his seat, pounding the table, with tears of joy rolling down his face. His perfect hair was now a mess, banana cream shrapnel was all over his sweater, and he didn‘t care. He had never laughed so hard in his life and thought nothing could ever top this. He was wrong.
The story could end here, but it wouldn’t. Carl’s bladder was still full and it was about to explode. This time when asked to be excused, his brother obliged and let him out of the confines of their booth. Larry took a bow as the other late night customers applauded the show they had just witnessed. Carl wanted some of the accolades so instead of proceeding directly to the restroom, he chose to stroll from table to table, still fully pie-faced, to show what had happened to him. As he did, he was met with polite silence instead of the boisterous laughter he was expecting. What was wrong with these people? This was a great prank … a classic! It sure was … he had forgotten to put his little buddy away and was now strolling from table to table like an organ grinder displaying his pet monkey! Fletcher pissed his pants!
Still unaware, Carl turned to face his roommates as if to ask why the others failed to see the humor in the situation. That’s when the night manager came over to see what the commotion was all about. Fletch was in a heap, holding his gut, pointing at the monkey on the loose. Carl blinked slowly through his banana cream facial then his jaw dropped when he realized what had happened. The manager caught a glimpse of the carnage and the birthday boy's pet and asked the trio to leave. Larry and Fletch beat a hasty exit for the door but Carl remained cool. After all, it was his birthday. Time to celebrate! He wanted to relish the moment.
He left every bit of pie intact, calmly lit a departing cigarette, executed a very thoughtful slow blink, turned to face his fellow diners, placed his left foot on the booth seat, placed his right fist on his hip Captain Morgan style, threw back the last of his Wild Turkey, carefully extinguished his cigarette in the pie pan, nodded to the manager who was bristling at his side, and then, in his finest Reginald van Gleason the Third persona … the pie-faced organ grinder and his fully exposed monkey tipped his hat to the waitress and did a vaudevillian shuffle through the reception area and proudly out the door.
This was Carl’s finest hour!
(True story)
The Foolish Art Of Throwing Pies: Part One
It was an early-1970's Memorial Day float-and-bloat weekend, an annual tradition. The group of friends had put in their inner tubes at a place called Best Beach on Pennsylvania’s Loyalsock Creek a few miles above the suspension bridge that lead to the Boy Scout camp. Thirty die hard floaters, a keg of Bud, and fifty pounds of shrimp were ready to float and bloat their way down the creek past the early summer throngs who would be relaxing barefooted in lawn chairs and airing out their creek side cabins as the summer season officially
opened.
Billy Joe Poolhocker, Gary Glitter, the Buttsfolks, the Necque, Edna Beets, those Horrible Hittle Boys, Pam and Jimmy V., many others, and all their dogs would make the first float of the year. Unfortunately, Warren Pinecone and his wife, Doty, wouldn’t be able to make the trip from New Hampshire to join them. A young summer was in the air. Temperatures hovered near the mid-60’s as the trees still wore the light green of their fresh spring foliage, but the water temperature still bore the chill of a winter just passed. Nonetheless, Hawaiian shirts, worn like the blazing flags of summer, cut-offs, and wrap-around sunglasses would make the floaters seen long before they were heard. Dogs on laps, butts in tubes, keg tapped and mounted in its own float, shrimp aboard, and individual rides tethered to the keg tube, the floatilla cast itself to the fate of the current with the promise of good friends creating good times.
Jim was one of the folks who owned a cabin on the banks of the creek. He was a good natured sort; a tall, thin, sharp-witted, fifty-two year old man who made his living as an aircraft parts inspector at Lycoming Aircraft. He had aired out his cabin the day before and had his first cup of coffee with the Sunday paper before deciding to try his luck at fishing down by the old suspension bridge that connected the highway to the island where his cabin and the Boy Scout camp were located. The sun had been up long enough to burn off the early chill, so he slipped on his hip boots, swallowed the last of the warm coffee in his Jetsons mug, draped a bamboo creel over a faded green fishing vest, grabbed his Fenwick, and tapped his favorite hat onto his balding head as he closed the cabin door behind him on his way to test his skills. As Jim was ambling among the rocks to get down to the creek, a small compact car made a U-turn at the suspension bridge and parked facing downstream along the edge of the road.
Fifteen folks with chattering blue lips had floated down the creek for almost three hours. The shrimp was long gone and ol’ Bud had a pretty good dent put in him. Nobody was feeling any real pain but everybody was cold as hell. The end of the ride just couldn’t come soon enough for most of the floaters. They had streamed past cabin after cabin and waved at people they didn’t know for most of the afternoon. Laps were scratched and scored from dogs who repeatedly got on and off. The ride in the sunny stretches was most enjoyable and leisurely as the water slowed to pass through deep pools that lived in the slate canyons that were home to the stream but the slow pace through sunless stretches had chilled them to the bone. The pace was much too slow for most. Somewhere up around the bend was a last stretch of warming sunshine and the suspension bridge that marked the end of their voyage.
Two people got out of the car that had pulled the U-turn and parked along the side of the road. The woman was a tall wispy blonde who wore tight blue jeans cuffed at the ankle like a pair of clam diggers, and a checkered burgundy flannel shirt that loosely hung over a powder blue tee shirt that fit her thin frame like a glove. He wore a pair of khaki shorts, a red tee shirt, and a long-sleeved dark blue zippered sweatshirt, was fit but thin, and had dark facial hair and a maniacal sense of humor. Fists on hips, he arched backwards to stretch his spine, then the two of them joined hands and strolled out onto the bridge to take in the creek and look over the scenery. They laughed about something when she grabbed onto his arm with both hands for stability as they walked farther out onto the swaying span that was made of planks and ropes and tied together with the signature of Boy Scout knots. Two thirds of the way across, they stopped and looked upstream as if they were waiting for something to appear on the water. From their vantage point they could see three-fourths of a mile, or twenty five minutes of floating time, up the creek … plenty of time to take action. Below them all was quiet and peaceful. A man in his fifties wearing silver wire-rimmed glasses and a bamboo creel was knee-deep making ready to cast his first choice of flies at waiting trout. He wore a faded green vest and a tattered beige fishing cap that was squat with a two inch brim that went all around the perimeter. He was self-absorbed in his efforts and didn’t pay much attention to the two sightseers thirty feet above him. As he cast his fly below, the couple made their way back to the car parked at the side of the road. He opened her door and as she slid inside, he made his way to the back of the car where he popped open the trunk. Out-of-state plates on the rear of the car rose to eye level as the lid of the trunk raised up. Inside were the usual things: jack, spare, flashlight, Hawaiian shirt, picnic basket, pump, deflated tube (child-size), latex swim cap, coconut cream pie, goggles, bathing trunks, plastic child’s beach bucket, and a blanket. He grabbed the picnic basket, returned the trunk lid to the closed position, and took his seat behind the wheel as she finished loading a fresh roll of film into her camera. The key was inserted into the ignition and turned to the accessory position so they could listen to the radio while they ate their lunch. Chicken salad sandwiches, an apple split between the two of them, a pack of Archway oatmeal raisin cookies, and a couple of semi-cold Diet Cokes hit the spot as they waited. Fifteen minutes would pass while they ate their lunch. Jim would go through two unsuccessful fly patterns and work his way far enough upstream that he was now situated between the suspension bridge and the floaters who were somewhere farther up the creek, around the bend, and still out of sight.
As the end of their journey approached, the float and bloaters had pretty much decided to go their individual ways in an attempt to get downstream and out of the chill waters as quickly as possible. Most had untethered from the keg as the group approached the last set of shallow riffles they would have to negotiate. They were about three fourths of a mile from the jumping out point and in about 30 minutes, thirty summer celebrators would be hauling their chapped and scratched skin out of the water and onto dry land. Except for the numbness they all felt, the voyage had been a successful early summer excursion. Lots of stories had been shared, everybody got caught up and had a full belly, and it seemed that everyone had a good time. Stupid smiles curled across their blue lips. A few of the floaters found a quick way through the rapids and headed toward the bridge while the others stayed behind to guide the dogs and the keg through the last obstacle they would encounter before the final stretch home. The last half hour would be in full sunlight instead of cold shadows and most would take advantage of it by laying outstretched and oblivious on their tubes. Ol’ Bud had done his job. They were toast. The sun would feel good. All made their way through the final obstacle and were now stretched out to take advantage of the warming sun. No longer a group, they were spread from shore to shore on their final leg of the journey and drifted like brightly colored leaves on the water.
Jim had worked his way another fifteen or twenty yards upstream and was now fishing from a small shale platform that jutted out into the stream. Behind him and to his right was a shallow pool of calm water that was unaffected by the current. On the edge of the pool was a small sandy flat spot that would serve as a beach. Doty had taken a position half way across the bridge to act as a lookout while Warren forced the last few pumps of air into his kiddy tube. She had her binoculars held up to her eyes to scan the creek for signs of the floaters. A Nikon with a long telephoto lens hung from her neck. Warren was now busy shaving, adjusting the car’s rear view mirror to get a better view to make sure that he removed just the left sideburn and only the right half of his dark bushy moustache and beard. He wanted to look as depraved as possible. A stupid grin spread across his face and he nicked his cheek as he laughed to himself with anticipation. Good pranks peppered this group’s history, the more elaborate and stupid, the better. This one would be a classic.
A bright yellow shirt spilled through the rapids upstream, at the bend in the creek, and was shortly followed by another tuber wearing his summer flag of blazing orange and blue. Doty’s eye caught the bright splashes of color and signaled to Warren that it was time. Warren huried himself and wiped the remaining foam from his face, shot her an acknowledging smile, and quickened his preparative pace. The long drive from New England would soon yield dividends and the lies they told about not being able to make it to the reunion would add the element of total surprise. It was time to have fun.
Jim was well into his fifth fly pattern. He wasn’t having much luck fishing from his shale perch and was so deep in thought that he barely noticed as Warren spread the blanket on the little sandy strip that lined the edge of the calm pool behind him. However, as he peered over the edge of his glasses while trying to select his next fly, Jim couldn’t help but take notice of a grown man with only half a goatee and one sideburn in a bright Hawaiian shirt stuffing his hair into a little girl’s pink bathing cap and pumping the last few bursts of air into a Beany and Cecil inner tube. Jim forgot about fishing and took a step back from the edge of the water to look at what was happening at his feet. He mumbled something to himself and furrowed his brow as Warren submerged himself in the water, made a spot in the tube for his pie, and gave Jim a wink and a “how ya doin’?” Jim and Warren were on the side of the creek farthest from the road. That was perfect because Doty had determined that Warren’s target was half way between the bridge and the riffles and was drifting along the same shore as Warren and his newly found friend. Jim pushed his hat back half a notch, tucked his rod under his left arm, squinted an eye and first looked at the girl on the bridge, then at the thing at his feet, and finally upstream. The parts inspector was smirking and chortling to himself as he put two and two together and pretended to look for a better fly in the box that he had pulled from his pocket. His smirk turned into a toothy but quiet grin as he gave Warren a knowing nod. Warren put a finger to his lips, gave him a smiling “sh-h-h-h”, and waded out a little farther into the water.
The worst of the Horrible Hittle boys, Larry, was stretched out on his tube enjoying the last five minutes of his float. For years, he had been the instigator in many of their friendly pranks. This year, it was time to turn the tables. The bridge was well in sight, and the two o’clock sun was warming his belly and the tops of his legs. His dog, Jeff Wheeler, had jumped off his lap and paddled to shore leaving a few new scratches on his legs as she departed. He would be left alone to enjoy the last few drunken moments of the day. His eyes fell from the lone person on the bridge to the figure of a solitary fisherman on his rock perch and his granddaughter playing in the water under his watchful eye. The fisherman had his rod tucked under one arm and was searching for a fly in the little brass box he held in his left hand. As the floater approached, Jim peeked over the silver rims, smiled, and waved an acknowledging pointer finger at him. The floater waved back as he had done all day and asked, “Catchin’ any?” … “Nope, not yet” came the reply as the little girl’s inner tube drifted away from the safety of the calm water and out into the three foot deep channel at her grandfather’s feet. Jim was smiling as the tuber got closer to the floater. As his “granddaughter” drifted farther out from his perch, Jim’s smile became a little bit broader. Beany and Cecil and the little pink swimming cap drifted closer and closer to the relaxing Horrible Hittle boy. Only the top of the swim cap and a pair of swimmer’s goggles protruded above the edge of the little girl’s tube as she innocently closed the gap between the two floatation devices. Hittle was oblivious when Warren struck. Warren had drifted unnoticed to within a foot of his target then stood up in three feet of water and smacked his unsuspecting victim with a coconut cream pie that completely smothered him. The only thing Hittle caught was a glimpse of a half moustache, a maniacal grin, swimming goggles, and a Beany and Cecil inner tube wrapped around the torso of a flailing hit man who was screaming at the top of his lungs like a depraved asylum lunatic. Doty captured it all on film as laughter and applause filled the canyon. They had all been in on it from day one … except for Horrible Hittle. They got him good! Even Jim applauded. He was proud of his little granddaughter as he whipped new life into his Fenwick and cast a coachman out onto the water ….
The rouge coconut cream pie delivery by Warren and Doty was a classic but the story that follows would take the Foolish Art Of Throwing Pies into uncharted territory with outstanding dividends.
Throwing pies was always acceptable within the circle of Horrible friends. As the years passed, pie throwing would become a refined art, with established rules, and reserved exclusively for birthdays.
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THE ORGAN GRINDER’S MONKEY
The Foolish Art Of Throwing Pies: Part Two
On your birthday, two things can happen .... Your friends can sing “Happy birthday to you”. The cheery little song ends. You make a wish. You blow out the candles, smile a while, and collect best wishes and a birthday kiss or two. You open your presents, eat cake, and viola … your birthday is complete.
Or: for the advanced celebrator, you can play by the Rules Of The Hunt.
24 hours. That’s how long a birthday lasts. It's open season from midnight to midnight. The weapon is a pie. The prey is the birthday boy or girl. There is one, or many hunters, all trying to pie the prey without being caught in the act ... all day long … at work, in the gym, in church, in a dentist chair, etc. If the weapon or assailant is seen by the prey in the act of delivery, and before it hits, the hunted may point at the attacker and yell, “Pie-e-kari!”, (like hari-kari) and the hunter must honorably pie himself. It pays to be a clever hunter. It pays to be a vigilant target. Throughout the years, some very creative schemes would be devised .
In 1980, the two oldest Horrible Hittle boys would find themselves relocated in Colorado. Larry would hatch a plot to pie his brother, Carl, on his birthday with the help of their new roommate, Fletcher Browne, and although not as elaborately planned as the Warren and Doty caper, this episode would prove to be one of the more memorable.
Larry and Carl had just moved to Denver after a three year stretch on Chicago’s south side where they refurbished a Victorian hotel, opened a restaurant, and took in a lot of White Sox baseball games. The date was 8 November, 1980. Three guys, Fletcher Browne, Larry Hittle and Carl Hittle lived in a townhouse on Denver’s southeast side. The Horrible Hittle boys were fledgling employees in a young mining company. Fletch was selling insurance and chasing the Amway dream. He was meticulous. He wanted to attain “pearl” status in the Amway pyramid in the worst way. The doors of the kitchen cabinets were tacked with little you-can-do-it stickers. Milk cartons in the fridge bore all-the-way-with-Amway reminders. Fletch was hooked. Go Fletch, go … sell that soap!
Fletch was well-schooled in the rules of the hunt, in fact, he had pulled off one of the greatest pie-e-karis on record. Fletcher had a birthday in the previous June. The three of them had signed up for an after work, summer bowling league. Carl and Fletch went to bowl, Larry feigned illness. Larry was hiding in the shrubbery outside of the Denver bowling center waiting for Fletch to exit as the league activities ended. He had taken his shoes off so he could run up silently from the bushes and pie Fletch when he least expected it. He had a pie in each hand. Fletcher was half way to his car in the parking lot. Larry was silently sneaking up behind him, running full speed, a pie in each hand. At the last second, Fletch turned to check behind him, saw Larry in full flight, yelled "Pie-e-kari!" and Larry, never breaking stride, smacked himself with two coconut cream earmuffs and flailed off into the setting sun. Fletcher was ecstatic and while he was jumping up and down in the parking lot celebrating his victory, Carl pulled a hidden coconut cream beauty from his bowling bag and delivered a perfect strike to an unsuspecting Fletcher. Larry had crawled on his stomach through the bowling center to put this reserve pie in place just in case he got caught trying to make the hit. It was beautiful. Two guys, covered in pie, oh my! Carl got Fletch good. Payback would be fun. When they all got home, Fletch put a red circle around November 8th on his calendar... Carl's birthday. Six months had passed. That day was finally here.
Carl had amazing bladder control. He could simultaneously talk, smoke a cigarette, and walk the entire length of a Chicago city block while urnating and never break the stream. However, when the urge to go arose, it could not be suppressed. All three had gone to work that day. The Hittle boys put on their shirts and ties to look nice in the building that housed the oil and mining business where they were employed. Fletch spent an hour on his hair to get it to look exactly like John Davidson’s, sold some insurance, and had a great day thinking about how he would get revenge. The Horrible Hittle boy’s jobs were located south of Denver where all the new money was centered. Along with elaborate office buildings, the south side erected numerous watering holes for folks to frequent when work was done. Tonight, Larry would treat his brother to a few birthday drinks before they headed home. It was his duty to make sure the birthday boy’s pie-sensing radar was dimmed so they stopped at Brinkers on the way home for Wild Turkey two-fers and some chicken wings. When finished, the two sated Hittles continued on their way home where they would hook up with Fletch and continue the evening’s celebration. Fletch had preached the goodness of Amway for the hour that followed his real job. He was now in his green Toyota GT, tie loosened, and on his way home.
Low hanging clouds had tried all day to dump their snow on Denver but all they could muster was a meager dusting. Fletch pulled into the garage leaving a thin set of tire tracks in the snow on the driveway. He checked his answering machine to see if anybody needed Amway products, swapped one v-neck sweater or another, pushed in a Neil Diamond cassette and waited for the Horrible brothers to arrive. A few minutes later, his two roommates pulled into the driveway. The thin tracks in the snow told them that Fletch was already home and that they would probably be walking into a Neil Diamond concert. Both kicked the slush from their shoes and entered Fletcher’s townhouse. Carl opened the fridge just to look at the milk carton and laughed. Neil Diamond was in the air. Yep, they were home all right. Carl's Wild Turkey buzz just made it seem more ridiculous. It wasn’t long before Fletch descended the stairs. He was ready to get rowdy, raised an eyebrow, and gave Larry an inquiring nod without Carl seeing it. The hunt was on. Larry nodded back. He lied and told Carl and Fletch that he wanted to take a shower and change clothes before going out that night. Fletch picked up on the cue and suggested that Larry meet the two of them at a nearby watering hole in about half an hour and so it was agreed that all three would rendezvous at Bennigan’s in thirty minutes. Fletch and Carl left while the remaining Horrible Hittle went to work preparing the tools of a piemeister. Although impaired, Carl would still be a tough target. He had survived numerous attempts in the past and would be wary of obvious tactics. Tonight would require something special, something simple yet effective, to get past his radar. The piemeister had just the ticket.
The image of the eight, circled in red, was still in the back of Fletcher’s mind as he pulled into the Bennigan’s parking lot. He wasn’t quite sure what was going to happen but he felt confident that all was in good hands and that he would not be disappointed. A sketchy plot between Larry and Fletch had been hatched earlier in the week. It was now Fletcher’s turn to make sure that the target would be sufficiently impaired to shut down his pie-sensing capacity. He would be successful in his mission. The mixture of Wild Turkey and multiple pitchers of beer would result in a combination of mild oblivion and perfect bladder manipulation. Back at the house, things were progressing quickly. Larry’s everyday winter coat was a red, three-quarter length puffy ski jacket that came down to the bottom of his pants pockets. It was laid out on the floor with both front panels pulled back to reveal the inner lining on the back of the jacket. He was busy sewing a 15x15 piece of flannel material to the inside of the coat to form a secret pocket between the waist and the bottom of the garment. This secret pocket was large enough to hold one boxed banana cream pie that he had purchased the day before and thawed under the living room couch for an entire day. The alteration required ten minutes. Insertion of the boxed pie, open end up, took another minute. Driving time would be less than ten minutes. Perfect.
Shiny brass fixtures and cascading ferns lent a swank touch to the Bennigan’s decor without spoiling the family atmosphere. Half of the comfy booths and only a few of the oak bar stools were occupied. Fletch and Carl were at the far end of the bar, their backs to the wall so they could watch who entered through the front door… like gamblers holding aces and eights. Carl was on guard but sloppy. Fletch was doing a great job. It was easy to tell. Carl was using his cigarette like a pointer to drive home his thoughts while his eyes were staying closed longer than usual as he searched his mind to find just the right words to express what he was thinking. The "slow blink" was his worst tell. The target was ready as his brother walked in the door. Fletch saw Larry and signaled from the bar. Piemeister stomped the snow from his shoes and made his way to the empty stool next to his brother who was eyes-closed, deep in thought. Carl felt his presence but was slow to react. He turned, one hand up defensively, instinctively, to shield himself from incoming pies. Piemeister thought about it but chose to await for a better opportunity. He took his jacket off and hung it over the back of his stool. The bomb was out of sight, close at hand, and ticking should he need it. Upon passing Carl's initial security scan, all three bellied up to the bar to have another one. One lead to another and pretty soon all of them were in a happy fog. They decided to retire to one of those comfy booths where the seating would be more to their liking. The birthday boy slid in first, up next to the wall. The piemeister sat to his left, effectively boxing him in. The red jacket was laid opened, across Larry's lap, under the table. Fletch sat across from them. He was wearing a pleasant grin and having trouble concealing it. Something was about to happen. He could feel it. Tick, tick, tick … the bomb was ticking. Tick, tick, tick … the bladder was filling. Tick, tick, tick … the hit on Fletcher in the parking lots months earlier was excellent, but nobody could imagine what was about to happen to Carl.
The trio tried their best to read their menus and pretty soon a smiley red haired waitress came by with her tray to take their order. Carl crouched low in his seat to get a glimpse under her tray, looking for a pie, to make sure an assassin had not been hired, a tactic that had been successful in the past. Satisfied he was safe, the target lit up a cigarette and settled into the corner of his booth while their basket of nachos was being prepared. His bladder was now full as he leaned to his left, blinked very slowly, and thoughtfully requested to be excused. Piemeister refused to budge and flashed a disinterested response. Carl blinked slowly and stared straight ahead, numbly, at Fletch as if to say, “Didn’t he hear me?” He leaned once again to his left and slurred, “C’mon, man, I gotta pee.” Again, Carl’s request was met with indifference. What Carl didn’t see was the piemeister’s left hand disappearing into the secret pocket.
Carl’s bladder was full to capacity and uncomfortable. He would have to resort to drastic measures. He put out his cigarette, straightened his back, bellied up to the table, discretely unzipped his fly, and pulled himself out of his pants. Leaning to his left, he once again asked his brother to be excused and, glancing down at his own groin, added that if he was not excused, Larry would receive a surprise. Larry raised an eyebrow, leaned back, and looked down to his right. Little brother was threatening to pee all over him underneath their table. “No, little brother, I have a surprise for you!” and as Carl was doing a slow thoughtful blink, the piemaster nailed him with a banana cream beauty that sealed every facial nook and cranny with tasty ooze. It was a full face hit and made a beautiful suffocating noise. Fletch erupted! Neither of them saw it coming. The folks in the next booth dropped their eating utensils and burst into laughter as the force of the hit splattered a halo of pie on the wall behind the target. Heads turned as others tried to catch a glimpse of what was happening. Carl sat in silent shock, amazed. Two crusted eyes opened and stared out through the creamy offering. He placed a newly lit cigarette between his coated lips, took a drag, exhaled, and without wiping away a single fragment, thoughtfully queried, “Where did you get that pie????!!!” A "slow blink" followed. By now, Fletcher had completely lost it. He was lying down in his seat, pounding the table, with tears of joy rolling down his face. His perfect hair was now a mess, banana cream shrapnel was all over his sweater, and he didn‘t care. He had never laughed so hard in his life and thought nothing could ever top this. He was wrong.
The story could end here, but it wouldn’t. Carl’s bladder was still full and it was about to explode. This time when asked to be excused, his brother obliged and let him out of the confines of their booth. Larry took a bow as the other late night customers applauded the show they had just witnessed. Carl wanted some of the accolades so instead of proceeding directly to the restroom, he chose to stroll from table to table, still fully pie-faced, to show what had happened to him. As he did, he was met with polite silence instead of the boisterous laughter he was expecting. What was wrong with these people? This was a great prank … a classic! It sure was … he had forgotten to put his little buddy away and was now strolling from table to table like an organ grinder displaying his pet monkey! Fletcher pissed his pants!
Still unaware, Carl turned to face his roommates as if to ask why the others failed to see the humor in the situation. That’s when the night manager came over to see what the commotion was all about. Fletch was in a heap, holding his gut, pointing at the monkey on the loose. Carl blinked slowly through his banana cream facial then his jaw dropped when he realized what had happened. The manager caught a glimpse of the carnage and the birthday boy's pet and asked the trio to leave. Larry and Fletch beat a hasty exit for the door but Carl remained cool. After all, it was his birthday. Time to celebrate! He wanted to relish the moment.
He left every bit of pie intact, calmly lit a departing cigarette, executed a very thoughtful slow blink, turned to face his fellow diners, placed his left foot on the booth seat, placed his right fist on his hip Captain Morgan style, threw back the last of his Wild Turkey, carefully extinguished his cigarette in the pie pan, nodded to the manager who was bristling at his side, and then, in his finest Reginald van Gleason the Third persona … the pie-faced organ grinder and his fully exposed monkey tipped his hat to the waitress and did a vaudevillian shuffle through the reception area and proudly out the door.
This was Carl’s finest hour!
(True story)