Every once in awhile in our neighborhood, when I was a kid, one distraught housewife or another would sound the alarm that there was a peeping tom lurking about at night. This happened a lot as I remember. So, this one time my brother and I, never missing a chance to be heroic, set out to catch the guy and reap the unending gratitude and heartfelt appreciation of the entire neighborhood, especially the girls in our age group and their mothers.
It was a good plan. While our parents went off to Tahoe for the night, Mike and I strung a network of clear fishing line throughout the backyard and hung a bunch of mom’s pots and pans on it. This was our combination alarm system and peeping tom trap. Then we got our sleeping bags, flashlights, and BB guns and camped on the roof of the house with a good view over the back yard. Our big sister—our oblivious babysitter—would be in the living room watching TV as usual. The couch she would sit on to watch TV had a bay window behind it opening out to the backyard. We made sure the curtains were half open—just enough for her to maybe not notice and just enough to maybe make her good bait to a peeping tom. Of course, with the two of us on the roof, he’d never get near her. We knew that, because we thought of everything. And we had BB guns.
It was going to be a cinch. Once this guy got tangled up in the fishing line, we’d paralyse him with a constant barrage of BBs untill the cops came. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Trying to outdo my big brother as usual, I added my own stroke of genius into the mix without telling him. My dad had left a big pot of engine oil in the garage, a remnant of the last time he changed the oil in the family car. I had carefully placed that pot ever so precariously on the eight-foot tall backyard gate so when the peeper entered our yard, it would slam down on him and he would be drenched in motor oil. In case he escaped our other securty measures, this would surely identify him.
We spent the night up there on the roof with our rifles trained on the dark yard, each taking his watch while the other slept and… nothing happened. Just before dawn two very worn out, disappointed snipers dismantled the whole apparatus in the back yard and put all the pots and pans away nicely, then snuck off to bed before our parents got home.
I clean forgot about the oil. That day the temperatures hit in the high nineties as the August sun baked the Sacramento Valley. Around 2pm I was inside the house getting a drink of lemon aide when I heard one of my little brothers scream. I ran outside to find him standing in the gateway next to the upturned pot screaming in shock and covered in oil while my mom was frantically spraying him with the garden hose. Amazingly, he wasn’t burned, or so as you could see it. It mostly just scared the living shit out of him—and my mom. But she knew intuitively that I had a hand in this somehow. She figured if it was weird, sudden and inexplicable, I was probably part of it. And she was usually right.
After sending my little brother to soak in the tub and me to my room to await further punishment, she conducted a thorough investigation and the entire covert operation of the night before was exposed. Immediately came an avalanche of charges. My big brother got in trouble for abetting me and planning the operation and my sister got in trouble for serious deriliction of duty. Both were competely blindsided by these charges as my brother had been, at least up to the moment oil fell upon my other brother, blissfully secure in knowing that we’d covered our tracks—those that he knew of, anyway. And my poor sister had no idea what was going on in the first place, so remained ignorant until punishment was inexplicably heading her way. But I was adjudicated as the head culprit due to my particular role in the mission, the part that actually endangered my little brother, and as a result I was left without an ally in the family, just a very freaked out, slightly burned little brother, one very upset parent, and two potential assasins.
I could have seriously burned my little brother if that oil hadn’t been sheilded from the sun by the roof eave. As it was, he was just slightly scalded, leaving only some signs of reddened, irritated skin for a day or two. We were all very lucky. Always.
My dad gave me the belt for that one, and I think I lost some privileges.
I don’t remember ever doing anything really mean to my sibs on purpose. I mean, we all shared a very keen sense of justice. I could easily find myself outnumbered six to one. Then would come the swift wrath of my parents if the infraction required intervention beyond our system of intra-sibling vigilantiism. It just wasn’t a practical thing to do.