Impractical Jokes (22 page)

‘Well, that is another good point.'

‘I know.'

‘I know.'

‘What do you know?'

‘I know what I know, son.'

‘And what's that?'

‘I know that we're not done with Operation Lovely Rita.'

‘Are we going to finish the job?'

‘Too bloody right we're going to finish the job!'

‘When are we going to do it?'

‘Tonight!'

‘But he'll be at home.'

‘Exactly, my boy! We'll attack him when he least suspects it.'

Once again we waited for the cover of darkness and for the community of greater Shasta Avenue to turn in for the night. We loaded up the car with our agrarian grab bag of tools and headed for Richard's. We cased the neighbourhood and everything seemed clear. There was no sign of Roger or his nightly fag. Perhaps he'd been doing some lesson learning of his own.

We carefully cut out a small patch of turf and dug a four foot hole a metre to the left of our previous attempt. Holding the pole in place, we filled the hole with concrete, leaving just enough room for two inches of soil at the top. We then relayed the turf and patted it down, leaving no indication of the extensive subterranean foundations. All up it took us about fifteen minutes. It's amazing how quickly things can go when you don't have to call in an emergency crew to avert disaster.

The next morning, at first light, Dad and I went around to Richard's to check out our handiwork. It was a thing of beauty. As dawn broke over Shasta Avenue, shards of light sliced through the treetops and ricocheted off the bright red parking meter.

We didn't say a word to each other. We just stood there, looking at it in all of its ridiculous perfection. Before we left we put a fake parking ticket on Richard's windshield, took a photo and hugged. It had been over a year and a half since I'd read about the parking meter auction in the local rag and to say that we felt an enormous sense of achievement would be a drastic understatement. At that moment I think the two of us had some idea of how all those bespectacled blokes in the NASA control room felt the day Neil Armstrong stepped on the moon. It was, put simply, bloody magical.

Richard thought it was funny too. When he walked out to his car to go to work that morning he took one look at the parking meter and burst out laughing. He ran inside to share his excitement.

‘Cheryl! Come outside and see what Ronnie's done.'

Cheryl came out and got the giggles as well.

‘So this is why we didn't have any gas for a week.'

‘I know, Cheryl. It's brilliant. It's bloody brilliant.'

They took photos of it as well. And Richard stood for a good ten minutes admiring what he considered to be a hilarious, good spirited piece of harmless fun.

Or at least he did until he tried to get it out. No matter how hard he tried, the parking meter wouldn't budge. He presumed the thing had just been rammed into the earth. He had no idea that four feet of steel and concrete lay beneath the surface. They tried pulling and pushing and tilting and shaking but it simply refused to move an inch. Finally, really putting his back into it, he gave it one last heave. His hand slipped off the pole and he went flying backwards, crashing ungracefully in the middle of Shasta Avenue.

Richard lay on his back in the middle of the road.

‘I think I've broken my bum.'

Cheryl ignored his plea and started laughing again.

‘Bastard, Pickering. Bastard.'

Richard then got the giggles too and laughed so long he was late for work.

This was the last prank my dad and I ever pulled together. The following year I went to university and things like cars, beer and losing my virginity seemed far more important than hanging out with my dad. I was in a rush to discover myself, be my own person and a whole bunch of other tedious clichéd euphemisms for being selfish and young. We grew apart, grew more different and, over time, grew to frustrate each other. I would never have admitted it at the time but when you exist in a world almost devoid of responsibility it is very easy to be flippant about the few genuine parts of your life.

Some years later, my dad and I have a lot more in common. These include things like family, responsibilities and the constant inconvenience of having to be a grown-up. The guy that taught me to kick a football, ride a bike and hammer a nail has become the guy that taught me how to buy a house. The truly remarkable thing is that it is completely the same guy. The guy that gave me what I most needed to make it in the world—a pathological desire to make people laugh.

Epilogue

A
fter telling this story on stage one night, I was asked by a member of the audience if Richard and Dad still do it? Are they still at war? The short answer is: no.

This is for a couple of reasons. Firstly, they are starting to get a little long in the tooth and the idea of fleeing a potential gas explosion on foot is beginning to sound both unappealing and unfeasible. Secondly, and most importantly, Cheryl made Richard sell their house to move into some kind of maximum-security apartment and, frankly, we just can't get at them. We have tried to get fake security passes and convincing disguises, but in these times of heightened security people really do seem to have lost their sense of humour.

That said, Dad hasn't changed at all. I was reminded of this a couple of years ago, around the time of the 2006 Victorian state election. I was living in London and rang home to chat with Mum as she cleaned up after a Sunday night family dinner.

‘How was dinner?'

‘It was good. Your dad is hilarious.'

‘Yeah, I know.'

‘No, seriously. He's hilarious.'

And then she told me about dinner.

All had been going well, with good wine, conversation and laughter in abundance, but my dad seemed to be out of sorts. He wasn't really participating in the dinner conversation. The longer the night went on, the more detached he became. By the time the main course was served, my mum couldn't let it go any longer.

‘Ron, are you ok?'

‘I'm fine.'

‘Really? Because you look a little . . . depressed.'

'Well, it's just that . . . No. It's not important.'

‘No really, Ron. You should tell us.'

‘Well, you see, tonight, when I was driving home from work I got stuck at the lights and noticed something. I noticed that a house on one corner of the intersection had a Liberal Party election sign in their front yard. And the house opposite had a Labor Party sign in their front yard. And the more I sit here thinking about it . . . geez I wish I'd swapped those signs.'

Everyone laughed.

‘Seriously. It was there for the bloody taking and I let it go.'

The dinner continued from there, Dad cheering up and everyone thinking they'd heard the end of it. Then, just as dessert was being cleared and coffee served, apropos of nothing, Dad stood up from the table.

‘Bugger it. I'm going to change the signs.'

With that he walked out the door.

And that is why I love my dad.

Acknowledgements

I
have dedicated this book to my family, but significant thanks must go to Richard Opie and the entire Opie family for not only giving me such wonderful memories, but for letting me share those memories with the world. A truly great sense of humour means not only making jokes but being the good-humoured subject of them as well.

This book would not have happened if it weren't for a wonderful woman named Jo Paul who came and saw
Impractical Jokes
in a little theatre in Sydney and signed me up to Allen & Unwin. She gave me great advice along the way and her colleagues Sue Hines and Lauren Finger very gracefully cracked the whip and got me to my deadline with seconds to spare.

Also, this book would simply not have been possible without the help, support, guidance, work and love of Claire Hammond, WG ‘Snuffy' Waldon, Kennedy, Kevin Whyte, Erin Zamagni, Veronica Barton, Kathleen McCarthy, Georgie Ogilvie, Dioni Meliss, Zoe Pyke, Georgia Chadwick, Lana Matafanov, Nick Pullen, Shaun Micallef, Tony Martin, Terri Psiakis, Justin Hamilton, Danny McGinlay and Sarah Krasnostein.