1974 in Austin Texas: Drunk driving was legal if you didn’t throw up on the officer; signing bonus' for U.T. Longhorn football players was a new car, and kids out of school for the summer roamed the neighborhood at night harassing the late night tennis players at the park near our homes. In retrospect, operation "lights’ out" seemed simple enough.
Usually we were Indians. On "The Night of Gerald Caldwell" we were ninjas. Behind the tennis courts was a jungle of tall weeds and bushes, all skillfully navigated by our ninja skills aided by our smaller than average size. Between the courts and the jungle was the light switch for the tennis courts. Early incarnations of operation "light's off" involved a long string, stealthily attached to the switch, pulled remotely from behind our camouflage. Now that we were older, strings were for wimps. If you were fast enough you could cover the ten feet of open ground and be gone before the player’s eyes could adjust to the sudden darkness.
Through stealth and guile we would maneuver the high weeds; wait patiently for the players to turn away, and then our cat like reflexes would take over. Who turned off the lights? There’s nobody there. It must be a ghost. We were masters of the night.
Gerald’s introduction to the night ninjas was an overwhelming success. We met up after the highly planned and brilliantly executed mission behind the elementary school. Gerald was in overload. Howls of laughter and electric adrenaline captured Gerald’s emotions like he was smoking crack.
"It’s my turn next. It’s my turn next. Let’s do it again. Let’s do it again." Everything he said, he said twice.
We thought it was fun that Gerald was vibrating, laughing and crying. The lights took about two minutes to warm back up. Smiles lit up our faces as we heard the sounds of rackets and balls starting up again. My brother and I had misgivings about the new ninja, but his energy won us over. This time, it was Gerald’s mission.
Little did we know that Gerald still had not understood the concept. It was simple. Turn off the lights. Run and hide. No, he didn’t get it, at all.
Once again we crawled on our bellies through the toughest high grass and bushes central Texas could throw at us. Other ninjas would of given up or turned back against such incredible obstacles. We were danger seekers. Living on the razor’s edge.
I first noticed something amiss when Gerald’s ninja skills seemed more like those of a robot. He walked out of the foliage, stood next to the light pole, and hit the off switch. No stealth. No running. No anything. Gerald just stood there, laughing like a hyena and pointing at the couple playing tennis.
"Hey. Did you turn off that light?"
"Haw! Haw! Haw! Oh, I got you! I got you!!"
My brother and I are in freak out. "Come on! Run! Run! What are you doing?!?"
Gerald just stood there. The tennis player told him to "cut it out" and pushed him away from the pole before turning it back on. In a few minutes they started playing again. My little brother is latched onto my arm and can’t stop saying, "Hole-ly crap."
Click.
Gerald hits the lights again and starts laughing. My brother and I have pulled back to the edge of our super secret escape route. We can’t see as well, but we can hear just fine. Screams of obscenities and threats were met by Gerald’s hyena laughter. This time he was pushed all the way out into the parking lot. A few minutes pass and play begins again.
Click.
"Hole-ly crap!" Out of reflex we’ve pulled back to the top of the hill which overlooked the tennis courts. We could see just fine but usually from this distance you can’t hear much. Since everyone was yelling, we could hear just fine. The woman who had been playing had joined in. She starts swinging her racket at the Gerald, acting like she’s going to crown him if he does it again. In a last ditch effort, the man grabs Gerald by the upper arm and shakes him like drunk English nanny. I distinctly remember Gerald’s huge noggin whipping forward and back like a Pez dispenser. His arm looked like it nearly dislocated from his shoulder. It was violent move. Gerald stopped laughing. He staggered around the parking lot while my brother continued to chant, "hole - ly - crap!" over and over again. The lights came back on and the couple slowly played, distracted as they tried to keep an eye on the odd kid in the parking lot.
Click.
Horror filled the moment. We couldn’t believe he did it again. And then he just stood there. Laughing. We couldn’t hear what they said, but when the woman pointed her racket at us and the man turned to look, that was are cue. We bolted and operation "light's out" was abandoned and never revisited. The adrenaline surge that previously filled Gerald had been transferred to us. We didn’t get to sleep until the early hours of the morning and spent the time dissecting the events in the sanctity of our bedroom. "Why did he do that? Did you see that? Should we go back? We got to go back, just to see if there’s any blood. That guy might kill him."
In the end we finally went to sleep and checked for blood in the morning. We saw Gerald a week later. He just laughed and asked what happened to us.
Gerald was a freaky kind of weird crazy. There’s only been one other person that was that freaky weird crazy.
Long live the night ninjas!
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