Is That Him?

Bill Bernico

It seemed like a clever, funny thing to do at the time. Of course, when you're nineteen, a lot of things seem funnier than they do on reflection years later. Sometimes it seems like all the world's a stage and you're just a stand-up comic.

Jeff and I were in no hurry to grow up during the summer of '69 and we found our fun wherever we could. Almost anything could be turned into something funny, at least from our perspective. For example, we thought it was hilarious to cruise the main drag of our hometown with the windows rolled down. I usually drove while Jeff hung out the passenger's window yelling at unsuspecting pedestrians. If you could get them to drop their packages, it was considered a successful mission.

Childish? Probably. Fun? You bet!

Even at work, Jeff and I seized every opportunity to pull a childish prank just for the laughs. Jeff stood at his punch press and I stood at some other metal stamping machine, making parts for lighting fixtures. It was a boring job and our minds usually wandered.

Walter was the janitor who swept the debris from between the machines and carted it away in his wheelbarrow. When he'd leave his wheelbarrow alone for a minute, either Jeff or I would take that opportunity pull our prank. One of our favorite gags was to smear grease on the underside of the handles of Walter's wheelbarrow. When Walter would return to move down the aisle, he'd grab the greased handles and set them down again in disgust. Jeff and I would try our hardest not to laugh, but we usually gave in and it just made Walter even madder.

Eventually our pranks would grow stale and we'd have to come up with a fresh trick to keep us entertained. During lunch one day at the factory, Jeff and I were sitting out on the picnic table under a shade tree. We watched as the pedestrians crossed at the corner and continued on their way. Like a lightning bolt, the idea came to Jeff. I could tell by his sinister grin that it was a good one.

“Here's what we do,” Jeff began. “We drive along like we always do and when we see some guy crossing the street, we stop the car, both of us hop out and you point at the guy and yell to me, “Is that him?”

I took another bite from my sandwich. “That's it?” I said. “Where's the humor in that?”

“Don't you get it?” Jeff said. “This guy'll be shittin' in his pants and running full speed to get away, wondering what is was he did and where we know him from.”

I got a mental picture of that set of circumstances and suddenly I got it. I broke into a broad smile and laughed out loud at the thought of some innocent guy running for his life and not knowing why.

“Let's do it,” I said eagerly. “Right now. We've still got twenty-five minutes left for lunch. We can be back by one.”

Jeff punched me in the arm as he ran for the car that I'd left parked in the lot. I followed close behind and climbed behind the wheel. We stayed off the main drag for our initial run, opting for one of the more well-traveled side streets. It didn't take us long to find and size up our first victim. He was a small man, maybe five foot six with a slim build. He wore a navy blue tee shirt with some sort of red emblem on the front. His walking shorts were tan and his sneakers looked brand new.

I slowed to ten miles per hour, letting the guy get to the corner just ahead of us. I squealed the tires and pulled into the intersection. I put the car in park and Jeff and I both hopped out. The man turned to look at Jeff, who was now pointing at the man's face and yelling to me, “is that him?”

The man's gaze shifted from Jeff to me and back to Jeff. Before I could react, the man took off running as fast as his feet would carry him. He'd only taken a few steps when he lost his footing and went down hard on the cement. He scuffed his new sneakers and scraped his knees but he got to his feet in a hurry and resumed running. He was half a block away before Jeff and I got back in the car, laughing so hard we thought we'd pop a vein in our heads.

“Did you see that guy run?” Jeff howled. “I thought he was gonna drop his jaw on the ground.”

“Yeah,” I answered between convulsive laughter. I was bent over, holding my knees. Jeff always took this opportunity to try to make me laugh even harder.

“I'll bet he runs out of bleach before he gets his shorts clean,” Jeff said, slapping me on the back.

“Stop! Stop!” I begged. “I can't breathe.” I sat down on the front seat, trying to compose myself before we drove back to our jobs. We worked through the rest of the day unable to keep from laughing every time we looked at each other. When the four o'clock whistle blew, Jeff and I left our machines and hurried out to the parking lot. We were anxious to try our new prank again on the way home.

Jeff was a little low on gas so we first made a stop at the filling station. While Jeff filled his tank, I walked over to the soda machine and dropped my quarter for a bottle of root beer. I drank from the bottle and watched as Jeff returned the gas nozzle to the pump and headed toward the station.

As Jeff was going in, a small man was coming out. He couldn't have been more than five foot six. He wore a navy blue tee shirt with some sort of red emblem on it. His walking shorts were tan and his sneakers may have been new when he put them on this morning, but now they were a scuffed mess. Jeff's eyes were drawn to the man's knees. Both knees sported large bandages.

Directly behind the small man was a larger man. He towered over the smaller man by at least a foot and outweighed him by a hundred pounds or more. Jeff stopped in his tracks. Both the other men stopped as well. The smaller man stepped aside.

The larger man looked down at the smaller man as he pointed at Jeff. “Is that him?” The booming voice said.