I originally posted this on March 12, 2009 and it was one of my few EP's. It was fun to write as I reminisced about more care free days. 

 You know you look up to someone if you're willing to do something for them that could land you in jail. Especially if what they ask you to do is really stupid.

Looking back, though, it wasn't just because it was asked of us. I think we did it because it was a mission. We liked missions. 

We have this friend and he lived in this place. It was nice; an old place with wood siding and a big porch. Down off the road in a hollow by the railroad tracks. The place had this small parking lot next to it. The parking lot was for the post office next door and it was lit at night. Which was unnecessary because no one goes there during the dark of night, I don't care what the mail carrier's creed says.

My friend didn't like the light that lit the parking lot because it made it hard to watch the stars do their imperceptably slow dance while sitting on the porch during a summer night. It also lit up the interior of his place.

What about some shades?

Shades blow. I don't want shades. Why should I put up shades? They should take down that light. I've asked them to turn it off, put it on a timer maybe, but they won't. I hate that light.

The light in question was one of those big high pressure sodium numbers, high up on a pole with an arm that extended it out over the parking lot. It had a big cylindrical glass lense that hung down under the cap, the hps bulb hidden within.

Who actually came up with the idea, concocted as it was amidst a couple of six packs and a haze of pot smoke, is knowledge now lost to the ethers. What it boiled down to was our friend wanted that fucking light out. Permanently. And we knew how to get it done.

What do you think? Can you guys help me out?

Yes, we can.

Our friend was someone we'd known for a long time. A bit more than ten years our senior, we were in high school the first time he'd hired us to work with him during our summer breaks; just odd jobs, a little of this, a little of that. He paid us cash under the table which, since we were now in college, was great for keeping the beer flowing on Saturday nights and gas in our cars for the rest of the week. He was one of those guys who'd done it all: Peace Corps, world traveller, artist. He had a degree in architecture he had never used. He told us stories and imparted wisdom we wouldn't have gotten elsewhere. Not a rich guy at all, he paid the bills by painting houses and selling his artwork. He and his girlfriend managed to scrape enough money together to buy some land in Costa Rica before it was fashionable. They invited us to visit them there while they passed the time drinking with the expats and waiting out the Pennsylvania winters. So when he asked if we'd get rid of that fucking light for him, how could we say no?

Actually, it was going to be a pretty straight forward operation. We wouldn't have to climb the pole or cut the wires. This was going to be much cleaner.

All we had to do was shoot it out.

We scouted the assignment. The light was about 25 feet off the ground on the pole between our friend's place and the post office. Beyond it were woods. No houses or other buildings. Problem was we didn't want to be shooting up at it as that would give a trajectory that would send the bullet off to parts unknown, and we really didn't need that to happen. Especially if we missed. What we needed was to be at the light's level or slightly higher. Fortunately the road that ran past went up an incline to the approach of a bridge that spanned the railroad tracks. Shooting from the bridge approach would put us at the same elevation as the light and give us a projectile path between the two buildings and into the trees. It was about a 200 foot shot, not bad. This was not a job for the pellet gun I had in the basement back at my parents' house. No, this was going to require something providing significantly more velocity and accuracy. As luck would have it, my partner in crime was a collector of firearms of all types; had been since since his dad had handed down to him a Mauser semi automatic pistol from WWII. So it came as no surprise he had just the right equipment to do the job.

It was a Springfield M1903A4 sniper rifle. First manufactured right here in the good old USA during the second world war to do an efficient job of killing Germans and Japanese, later versions of this model went on to have  storied careers in Korea and even early on in Vietnam. It differed from the standard model A3 primarily by having scope mounts and no barrel sight. With a modern scope, the far less deadly task of putting out that fucking light was an easy gig.

The plan was simple: Roll up the road very early on a Sunday morning before sun came up, stop on the bridge approach, take the shot, drive away. We decided he would be the marksman, being skilled at that sort of thing as he was, and I would be the wheel man. It was not going to take a great deal of skill to stop and then pull away. But with a fool stunt like this, you just never know.

Now, what wheels exactly would we be using as our mobile sniper's nest? We needed something big, with four doors to have enough elbow room in the backseat to aim out the window. That ruled out both of the little foreign shitboxes we were currently driving. 

What about that big old Lincoln your mom has?

Perfect.

We did a couple of dry runs on Saturday, just so he could get a feel for the environment and distance. Later, some target practice back at his mom's house to calibrate the scope.

At a little after 3am Sunday morning we were rolling up the road, on the way to the target area. Stone sober and all business, we talked little on the way to the job. The interior of the car smelled of old leather and gun oil. He was in the back seat, the rifle across his thighs. I kept my eyes on the road; it wouldn't do to hit a deer now and mess up our careful planning. There had been a misting rain earlier but the stars were out now. No radio on, we listened to the tires smacking the damp pavement as we came closer to the bridge. As we did, my hands left the steering wheel one at a time to put in the foam earplugs I'd brought. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the sniper do the same in the back seat. He then pulled the rifle's bolt up and back and inserted a single .30-06 cartridge into the chamber then slid the bolt forward and pushed it home with the satisfying click of well lubricated metal. There would be no second try. If he missed, sorry pal, looks like you'll be putting up shades after all.

A few hundred feet from the bridge, I slowed down gradually. There were no houses in the immediate vicinity so we had little concern about someone out walking their dog witnessing our foolish crime. Sure as shit, there it was; the fucking light was on just like every night. Coming from this direction it would be on our right side. No cars behind us and no hint of headlights from the oncoming direction, this was going to be it on the first pass. Now at the bridge approach, I slowed to a stop.

What do you say, Kemo Sabe?

Let's do it.

My foot firmly planted on the brake keeping the big car still, I twisted to my right to watch as the sniper rested the wooden forestock of the Springfield on the door through the open window. The glow from the light shown on the gun and the sniper's face as he peered through the scope. I can only imagine what it would have looked like to someone had they been standing off to the side of the road...a green '76 Lincoln idling quietly in the moonlight with the business end of a rifle sticking out of the window. Before the shot I was listening to the extent I could with the earplugs, but all I heard over the soft rumble of the engine were muffled crickets...not even the sound of a distant barking dog. If there were any around, they'd be barking soon enough.

Earplugs or not, the shot was loud.

CRACK!

The interior of the car did not absorb the sound well; the leather could only do so much in such a relatively small space. A nanosecond after the gun fired, we saw a shower of sparks rain down as the abruptly disconnected wires shorted. The metal arm that had previously been a supporting a perfectly functioning high pressure sodium lantern was now supporting the remnants of a shattered hps bulb and some bits of broken glass.

Well shit, what do you know? He hit it.

He pulled the rifle back in the car as my right foot swiveled on its heel from the brake to the accelerator. As I applied ever increasing pressure, the big car broke from its inertia as the engine came to life and we began moving as fast as the smog controlled V8 could pull its two ton burden from a standing start on the incline.

The smokeless powder used in the cartridge wasn't exactly true to its name as wisps of the burned propellant trailed up from the chamber after he pulled back on the bolt to expel the empty shell. The acrid scent of the discharged firearm filled the car as we motored away at a steady but not too speedy clip. We took the long way home, choosing not to drive back past the old place in the hollow by the railroad tracks that was next to the 25 foot pole standing guard in a dark parking lot.

***** 

This story would have a better ending if something dramatic had happened afterwards. Someone saw us, got the license plate number and we were arrested for vandalism and also maybe slapped with some federal charges since a post office was involved. Or if we had inadvertently hurt someone which, while tragic, might have seemed fitting if this were a tale of youthful stupidity that ends with two sorry individuals trying to make amends and/or seeking redemption. As it is, it's just a story of two guys doing a favor for a friend that, while foolish and destructive, did not result in some cosmic come-uppence that changed our lives.

No, what happened was predictable. The epilogue is the landlord for the building the post office was in just replaced the light after a week or so. We don't even know if he called the police; our friend who lived next door never got a knock on his door. Honestly we knew that, if successful, the light would probably be replaced. We had discussed that before hand but decided to go through with it anyway. As I said, it was a mission and we liked missions. And our friend got a week reprieve from the light pollution. Were there any lessons learned from our foolishness? Maybe. We never shot at anything that wasn't ours again, so I guess that's something. Also I think what happened to us was that shortly after this incident we started realizing somewhere in our heads that we were getting older. Sure, you do a lot of dumb stuff during your college years and even beyond (and I did and still do, trust me). But somewhere during that time I began to realize we weren't kids anymore and that I was going to have to start taking a little more responsibility for my actions. So maybe this story marks a turning point or at least signifies a new layer of self awareness that I was trying on like a new coat. Sometimes the fit wasn't right and I'd take the coat off again and relive some of those carefree days. But eventually, it became quite comfortable. 

Which doesn't mean an end to being carefree. It just means you find new outlets to use for expressing yourself. And once and a while, even as a world weary and cynical adult, you may find it freeing to take that coat off, just for a short time. Just for fun.

Anybody have a light shining in their window that's pissing them off?

*****