Getting Away with It!

My 21st Birthday Party at Chucky Cheese

Being the younger of two kids has its advantages. Mainly, you watch the older one walk face-first into a parental wall, and you take notes. My brother was the prototype—always getting caught, always in trouble. Me? I learned the ways. I knew when to smile, when to look busy, and—most importantly—when to disappear. Not in a Houdini way, but in that silent, younger sibling way where you become air during the aftermath.

That carried over into adulthood in strange ways. Last night, a few of us Greenland Sharks were out celebrating a friend's birthday after CrossFit—because nothing says fitness like the Mystery Gilled Cheese (On the Menu) and Rum. The topic turned to what kind of drunk you become. The fighter, the cryer, the sleeper, the talker. I knew my answer immediately: I was the prankster. Still am, probably. My tricks weren’t destructive or cruel, just…unexpected.

Like the ketchup. After a party, when someone was sleeping on our couch, I’d quietly sneak into the kitchen, grab the half-full bottle of ketchup, and apply it gently beneath their nose. A couple quiet squeezes—pfft pfft—and voila: instant confusion, a dash of horror, and an abrupt wake-up call. Nothing serious, just a condiment-based alarm clock.

Or the time I walked into a bathroom with a full pitcher of water and, mid-pee, slowly began to pour the water… drip… drip… then a steady stream. I didn’t say a word, just stood there stoically as people turned around, jaws dropping. I let it go on for a full 10 minutes. Someone finally said, “Is he still going?” One guy nodded solemnly. “That's not human.” Again—not a prank, just a silly, but still one of my proudest non-accomplishments.

But here’s where the line between “getting away with it” and “learning a lesson” gets blurry.

Back in college at the University of Illinois, I had an assistantship recording concerts. Pretty solitary gig: show up to Smith Memorial or Krannert, set up mics, calibrate the console, start the reel-to-reel, and monitor from a lonely control room.

One night, Orchestra 3 was playing and I asked my buddy Lance to tag along. For fun, we brought a little liquid entertainment. Nothing wild—just enough to ease the boredom.

While the orchestra played, I recorded the performance on one reel, and on another reel I routed the feed with a pair of mics in the control room so Lance and I could do a kind of Mystery Science Theater meets PDQ Bach's Symphony No. 5 Sportscast. We watched through the soundproof window and gave commentary like, “Whoa, conductor’s getting sweaty,” and “Third violinist? Kinda cute.” We were having a ball.

The next Monday I got a call from my boss at the Recording Services office. He opened with, “What were you doing last night?” and I froze. “Just... the usual,” I said.

“Well,” he said, “when the conductor played the tape back to the orchestra, they could faintly hear two voices during the quiet passages.”

And that’s when my stomach dropped so hard it bounced. I had grabbed the wrong reel. Not only had I not gotten away with it, I had now unintentionally gifted Orchestra 3 a live review of their own performance, complete with our less-than-professional thoughts.

He called me in. The long walk to the School of Music was horrible. He made me sit there. He made me listen. It was like watching your social life burst into flames, but in Dolby Stereo. And there it was—me and Lance, whispering our brilliance over the most serious and solemn passages. Awful. Cringe-worthy. The kind of thing you feel in your kidneys.

After ten long minutes of silence and well-earned reprimands, he said something I didn’t expect: “Well, I can’t fire you. You’re too good. I don’t have time to train someone else before the semester ends.”

Wait... what?

I got away with it.

Sort of.

And here’s the thing—getting away with something while also feeling terrible about it? That combo? It sticks. I’ve forgotten half the tests I took, most of the lectures I sat through, and all the books I claimed to have read. But I will never forget the ghostly echo of my own voice coming through that reel-to-reel playback. The dread. The embarrassment. And then… the weird relief.

There’s a fine line between harmless fun and crossing over into consequence. And maybe it’s not a bad thing to find that line once in a while. It teaches you something. It makes the story better. It humbles you. And it gives you that slightly haunted look in your eye when you tell the tale later—usually to a room full of Sharks, over a drink, with someone saying, “Wait… you did that?”

Yes. Yes, I did.

And no, I don’t recommend the ketchup thing anymore.