Touch Points

When they slept, that second night
She couldn’t sleep, scooted away
To the outskirts, precipice
The edge, her mad desires at bay

As he slept, that second night
She couldn’t sleep, she listened in
To his breathing, watched his lids
Her room too quiet, skin too thin

In his sleep, he stretched out towards her
Seismic shift, or subtle ebb
Til’ his skin, a speck, mere dot of it
Threatened them, their rift, their web

Instead of sleeping, she slipped down to
Where they touched, two points, pin heads
There, the channel, bridged, connected
Kept them flowing, inward led

There she couldn’t pretend he wasn’t
In her bed, her mind, her hair
But all that mighty light and energy
Couldn’t save her darkened lair

Those two points, those dots kept her awake
Til the window broke the shell
Of their delusion, his exclusion
Their separate-but-equal private hells

Once awake the points no longer touched
Bridge was broken, dots dissolved
He got up, got dressed and left her
Goddess of sunny, morning resolve

Neither point could know it was the last
Time they’d touch in just that way
Neither dot could see it coming
No time to ask its friend to stay

Sometimes things, they end with a mere nod
Foreshadowing readily ignored
Sometimes points that touched, that’s all they get
Now they’ll long, having once adored.

Mischief Night

Once upon a time, the second most thrilling night of the year was the night before Halloween. It was recognized by parents and notoriously acknowledged in schools. It had it’s own code and mystique and was as culturally relevant as it was regionally unique. It was called, “Mischief Night,” and we lived for it.

The name alone should give you a clue as to the origins of this All Hallows’ Eve eve. It wasn’t called Terror Night of the Damned or License to Destroy Everything in Sight Night. Back in the eighties it was still aptly named so like lovable movie gremlins, we brain-stormed, strategized, and carried out a single night-- of mischief.

Like it’s well-behaved sibling, Halloween, planning for Mischief Night began many weeks in advance. Tossing around ideas for pranks began concurrently with costume suggestions back in early October, but with one major difference: we didn’t discuss Mischief Night with our parents. No siree, this was our holiday, and we united as one against the whole town, independent of parental supervision or control, left to our own devices and, more importantly, consciences.

My rural New Jersey town, mind you, was small; Mark Twain small. It was three blocks wide and two blocks long and had train tracks that ran along the edge of town with a little used train yard perpetually checkered with rain puddles and a corn field just on the other side. We used one of the vacant railroad cars as our command center and from there, planned every day after school for our mission with the zeal and focus of a Marine task force.

There was so much pre-production and mischief execution to design and stage that every voice counted and I felt part of an exciting underground movement. There were at least four of us—perhaps as many as seven—ranging between the second and fifth grades. There was probably a leader, and various consigliere and lower ranking commanders but it’s foggy. I was only in third grade, so I probably followed orders.

The first phase of our operation prep was to gather resources. If each of us could pilfer between one and two bars of soap from under our bathroom sinks between now and Mischief Night we’d be in good shape. Same went for toilet paper, but we’d need to get at least three rolls each to really make a statement, so better start squirreling them away now. Of course, we’d need to hide our supplies where our moms would never find them. Someone suggested under our beds and we all heartily concurred. They’d never look there.

The corn shucking wasn’t my idea. I’d moved to town late in kindergarten and wasn’t wise to its ways like the other kids who’d grown up there, but I liked the concept. First we crossed the tracks, slipped under the fence and stole a few ears of corn-- okay, more like fourteen. Then we sat for hours discussing the order of which houses to hit with brown supermarket paper bags between our legs as we shucked the hardened multi-colored kernels off the cobs by rubbing the base of our palms back and forth till they were red and tingly.

All that was left to do now was make sure our blackest clothes were washed and ready to wear and wait. We busied ourselves with Halloween costume preparations and when asked by adults about our plans for Mischief Night we always demurred as if we hadn’t given it a thought. But it’s all we thought about and for the final few weeks, kids all over town had to be very well behaved in fear of being grounded on Mischief Night. When someone was grounded, the bleak news spread like wildfire and heads hung low in commiseration.

On the big night I let down my cool exterior long enough to ask my parents for permission to stay out later than usual. They knew what was up and asked me if I had everything I needed as I headed towards the front door dressed in my darkest dungarees, carrying a bulky pillowcase filled with “nuthin.” Mom slipped me an extra bar of soap as she reminded me that my curfew was 9pm and not a minute later. Then off I went—an eight year old with no chaperone— into the night to join a scrappy band of up-to-no-good elementary school hoodlums, giddy with excitement; over-the-moon with anticipation.

Our targets were neighbors and friends whom we knew wouldn’t get mad, and a few notorious curmudgeons whom we hoped would. We soaped their car windows and rang doorbells and ran. Then we threw fistfuls of corn kernels against windows lit by flickering televisions. The sound created a rat-a-tat racket and we giggled and squealed as we dove behind bushes to the sound of front doors opening on interrupted programs and empty threats.

The true pièce de résistance was the toilet papering of trees. The act itself took the patience and dedication of an artist combined with the depth perception, strength and accuracy of an athlete. The bigger kids hurled rolls of toilet paper up towards the branches of trees, careful to leave long tails trailing behind. The littler kids scrambled to pick up the rolls as they bobbled and fell through the branches to the ground then handed them off to the throwers to repeat this feat again and again until every tree had been transformed into an ethereal weeping willow. Long, white, toilet paper trails flowed like ghostly ballet dancers’ arms back and forth in the night breeze and our little town looked at once eerie, festive and magical.

Then it was curfew and time for bed. In the morning, porches would have to be swept and cars would have to be washed, but that was about the extent of the fall out. The trees, however, would be a reminder of how a band of kids from all different grades could come together with a common goal; to design, manage and execute the transformation of a town-- astoundingly, while working independently of adults. The trees lent our street an air of mystery and beauty until a big rainstorm would come inevitably and washed it all away. Until then, we smiled proudly as we passed under them on our walk to school. The trees, for the moment, were ours.