Take for example the Pits of Hell; as we affectionately called them. No, not the real pits of hell, but a gravel distribution business; complete with huge piles of rocks and a gravel elevator. It was a bleak and mysterious place. I don't ever recall seeing people working there; it always sat quiet, as if deserted, but consistently had mountains of dirt and rock at the ready. I never knew the real name of the company, but it was somewhere you could go to buy clean fill dirt and gravel, located on a flat, desolate plain near the railroad tracks.
Everyone should have some wooded railroad tracks to hang out around when they're kids. We practically lived at the ones by our house. You could go jump off the trestle into Alum Creek, hang out in the surrounding woods smoking your first cigarettes, climb trees, go fishing, and flatten coins on the tracks when trains came by.
The Pits of Hell were right off the tracks next to the I-270 outerbelt. The tracks ran under the 270 bridges, another favorite hangout for bored, angst ridden kids with cans of spray paint. If you got off the tracks near the bridges and headed west into the Pits there were huge mounds of dirt piled high for sale near the entrance. You would continue walking between the dirt piles and enter onto a flat, lifeless piece of land that stretched for about a half of a mile before reaching some woods.
One day, after Joel and I had spent most of the morning wandering around in those woods to escape the boredom that was always hot on our heels, we ended up emerging from the trees at the edge of the dirt flat with the intention of heading across the plain toward the bridges.
A storm was brewing overhead, and fast. Knowing it’s not smart to be in such an open area in a thunderstorm, we thought we could hurry across the plain before it struck and find shelter under the bridges. As usual, we were wrong.
Almost immediately after emerging from the woods and into the open the rain began. We picked up the pace. The normally dry, dirt plain was rapidly turning into a sticky field of mud. Back in those days everybody wore jeans with a comb in their back pocket, flannel shirts and hiking boots. The hiking boots began doing a marvelous job of picking the sticky, Ohio clay up off the ground and holding onto it.
The sky darkened as the storm got more intense, it was really turning into a downpour. Lightning flashed all around us and deafening thunder exploded overhead as we trudged through the mud, terrified now of getting electrocuted. We had no choice but to keep going for the safety of the bridges, the woods would be just as dangerous with all the tree roots under foot. We had a long way to go.
As the rain continued the mud became ridiculous. I’ve never seen mud like this before or since. With each step more and more clay would adhere to our boots, making walking nearly impossible and running completely out of the question. Before long we had accumulated huge clumps of mud on the bottom of each foot that had to weigh at least twenty pounds apiece. With chunks of mud the size of basketballs adhering to our feet each step became a chore. We would kick the mud off and scrape at it the best we could, only to have just as much back on our boots within two to three steps.
The rain and lightning continued. Now we were getting tired. If you don’t believe me, try strapping a sandbag to each of your feet and go for a walk, you’ll see what I mean. We were actually taller because of the inches of mud stuck under the soles of our boots. We stopped and huddled next to the tallest objects in the field; the piles of dirt and gravel, as we got near to them, just to rest.
Of course; being complete goofballs, we were scared silly, but still cracking jokes and laughing at the ridiculousness of our situation. I specifically remember Joel yelling dramatically, “Were gonna die man!” and both of us laughing hysterically. We were always able to find the humor in terrifying situations; I've come to believe these are some of the best laughs you can ever have.
Drenched, we finally made it to the bridges without being struck by lightning and spent several minutes scraping off our platform mud soles while laughing about the whole ordeal.
***
Another example of boredom-turned-stupid took place one winter. We were wandering around looking for trouble and there it was, sitting in a parking lot. The day was cloudy and cold with snow on the ground. As we walked we could see our breath. We chatted and made the usual jokes when suddenly the clouds parted, the sun briefly came out and we heard an angelic chorus. Sunbeams shone down from the heavens to illuminate the previously unattainable dream of any teenage boy.
There in the Kroger parking lot it sat: a car bash, a whack a wreck, whatever cute little nickname you want to give it, it was our opportunity to pay a small fee to smash a car with a sledge hammer.
We raced across the lot like boys possessed, huge smiles breaking out on our young faces. Money was no object at this point, it could’ve cost hundreds of dollars and we would’ve shelled out our last dime. Two women sat huddled in a cold car next to the wreck, the marooned victims of whatever fundraiser it was for, forced to sit there all day and collect the money of any unsuspecting fools who happened by. Us, for example.
We couldn’t give them our money fast enough. Cash exchanged hands and I was given a sledge hammer and told to wear some goggles and a hard hat. Joel; to his credit, was at least too cool to wear the hat, whereas I; in my geekdom, eagerly donned them all and looked all the more like the dork that I was. The hat was too small and stood high on my head and only added to my already goofy look; appropriate for the fool that had just handed over his last dollar.
That’s when the clouds slammed shut, the singing stopped and reality snapped back into focus. As I looked the wreck over for a choice area to smash away to my heart’s content, I realized that all the glass was already broken. Everything down to the turn signals was already gone. There was nothing fun or cool about this all of a sudden. I inspected every square inch of the car looking for an undented section of sheet metal and found none. Glumly, I swung the sledge against the wreck doing minimal damage to an already ruined area. “Whunk!”
That was it. That was all the fun we got out of it. Three whunks apiece. No satisfying smashing of glass or crushing of quarter panels. Just a whunk as we hit an already demolished car. I hope those ladies felt guilty taking our money, but I can’t really blame them, we were the dopes who ran up to do it. I can still remember how surprised they looked when we came dashing up waving our money at them. They probably figured no one else would come by in the freezing weather and they were stuck there until their fundraiser was over, when along comes Dumb and Dumber.
“Well, that was stupid,” we agreed as we walked away, bored.
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