The Super Soaker Incident of ’98

There are certain stories from your teenage years that make you stop and wonder:

How did we survive long enough to develop lower back pain?

Because teenagers today will never fully understand what it was like growing up in the late ’90s.

There were no smartphones documenting your stupidity.

No Find My Friends.

No Life360.

If you left the house at 6:00 p.m., your parents basically released you back into the wild and hoped you’d eventually return wearing roughly the same number of limbs you left with.

And THAT is how stories like this were allowed to happen.

This one comes from Mike in Indiana, who sent me a story about his buddy Danny—a young man who apparently woke up every morning and treated good judgment like a personal enemy.

It was the summer of 1998.

The Truman Show had just hit theaters, everybody was questioning whether their entire existence was secretly a television program, and Danny was about to provide enough evidence that somebody DEFINITELY should’ve been supervising ours.

And it all started with a Super Soaker.

It was the summer of ’98, and there wasn’t much happening in our little town.

When you’re a teenager in a small town, entertainment options are limited.

You could hang out at somebody’s house.

You could wander around Walmart without buying anything.

Or you could pile six people into a vehicle designed for four and pray everyone’s parents believed you were somewhere completely different.

We chose option three.

Our buddy Brad had an old Chevy that looked like it had already survived three divorces and at least one police chase.

The thing rattled at stoplights.

The passenger window required teamwork.

And I’m pretty sure the Check Engine light had been illuminated so long that Brad considered it part of the dashboard’s ambient lighting.

But it ran.

Mostly.

So a bunch of us piled inside and headed to the movie theater to see The Truman Show.

We had everything necessary for a successful teenage movie night:

Smuggled candy.

Gas-station drinks.

Approximately twelve dollars between all of us.

And absolutely no adult supervision.

What we DIDN’T know was that Danny had brought something else.

A Super Soaker.

Not one of those little plastic squirt guns you give a six-year-old at a birthday party.

No.

Danny had one of those enormous Super Soakers that required pumping, shoulder strength, and possibly a concealed-carry permit.

This thing had RANGE.

Danny could’ve irrigated farmland with it.

But somehow, throughout the entire movie, nobody questioned why this man had brought aquatic artillery into a movie theater.

Because again…

We watched the movie, had our minds blown by Jim Carrey, and walked outside discussing whether our own lives might secretly be some giant television show.

That’s when Danny stopped walking.

There was a police officer standing beside his patrol car.

The officer wasn’t bothering anybody.

He wasn’t arresting anybody.

He wasn’t even looking in our direction.

The man was simply standing beside his cruiser enjoying a donut.

Just living his life.

And I watched Danny’s face change.

Anyone who’s had that friend knows the look.

It’s the facial expression that says:

“I have just had an idea that will negatively affect everyone standing near me.”

I saw the Super Soaker come up.

“Danny…”

He started pumping it.

“Danny, don’t.”

Pump.

“DANNY.”

Pump.

Then Danny aimed directly at the police officer.

At this point, the rest of us had approximately two seconds to decide whether friendship included becoming accessories to whatever crime was about to occur.

Apparently it did.

Danny pulled the trigger.

FWOOOOOOSH.

He absolutely SOAKED this officer.

I’m talking head to toe.

Hat.

Uniform.

Donut.

Everything.

For about half a second, nobody moved.

The officer stood there dripping.

Danny stood there holding the Super Soaker.

We stood there reconsidering every friendship decision we’d made since elementary school.

Then the officer looked at us.

And that’s when our survival instincts finally kicked in.

“RUN!”

We scattered like somebody had turned the kitchen light on in a roach-infested apartment.

The officer started yelling.

Somebody screamed.

Brad nearly fell over a curb.

I heard Danny laughing behind me like this was somehow still an enjoyable recreational activity.

Meanwhile, I’m sprinting down the sidewalk thinking:

I’M GOING TO JAIL BECAUSE THIS IDIOT SHOT A POLICE OFFICER WITH WATER.

And here’s the thing about running from the police as a teenager:

You don’t have a plan.

Nobody yelled, “Meet at the designated safe house!”

We just RAN.

Left.

Right.

Across a parking lot.

Behind a building.

At one point I think we ran through somebody’s landscaping.

Eventually, through either divine intervention or the officer deciding we weren’t worth abandoning his remaining donuts for, we escaped.

Our group slowly reconvened at a little greasy-spoon restaurant a few blocks away.

This place was known for something called a Chill Fog.

Now, I can’t adequately explain what a Chill Fog was because I’m still not entirely convinced the restaurant knew.

It involved ice cream.

Soda.

Syrup.

And probably at least one ingredient that wasn’t approved by the FDA.

Basically, imagine a root beer float made by somebody who had recently suffered a head injury.

Naturally, we ordered several.

We’re sitting in a booth trying to catch our breath while Danny is STILL laughing about soaking the cop.

This man had just narrowly escaped consequences and somehow learned absolutely nothing.

And that’s when Danny reached into his pocket.

He pulled out a bag of chili flakes.

I don’t know why.

I don’t know where they came from.

I don’t know why Danny was apparently carrying both a Super Soaker AND loose seasonings around town.

This man left home prepared for situations nobody else knew existed.

Danny looked at his Chill Fog.

Then at the chili flakes.

Then back at the Chill Fog.

And once again…

I saw the face.

That same stupid face.

“These will make it better.”

No.

No, Danny.

They will not.

But before anyone could stop him, he dumped what looked like HALF THE BAG into his drink.

Not a sprinkle.

Not a pinch.

This man seasoned that beverage like he was preparing ribs for a competition.

The top of the Chill Fog turned red.

Even the ice cream looked concerned.

Danny stirred it.

Took a giant sip.

And immediately discovered that God sometimes provides consequences personally.

His entire face changed color.

I’m not talking slightly red.

Danny went from Caucasian to fire truck in about three seconds.

His eyes widened.

Tears started pouring down his face.

His nose started running.

He slammed the drink onto the table and gasped:

“OH MY GOD.”

We lost it.

This man had spent the previous twenty minutes celebrating the fact that he escaped the police…

only to get taken down by a condiment.

Danny grabbed his water.

Bad decision.

He started chugging.

Nothing.

More water.

Still nothing.

He was breathing like a woman in active labor.

“IT’S GETTING WORSE!”

At this point, we’re crying.

One of us slid him some napkins.

Another guy suggested more ice cream.

I was absolutely useless because I couldn’t breathe from laughing.

Danny finally leaned over the table, tears streaming down his face, and whispered:

“What kind of demon chili is this?”

Buddy.

It’s regular chili.

YOU PUT HALF A BAG OF IT IN ICE CREAM.

The chili isn’t the problem here.

Eventually we decided it was probably time to leave before Danny declared war on another member of law enforcement or attempted to season a ceiling fan.

We made our way back toward Brad’s Chevy with Danny walking slightly hunched over, sweating, sniffling, and quietly threatening revenge against whoever invented the Chill Fog.

Which was interesting…

because the Chill Fog hadn’t done anything.

The police officer hadn’t done anything.

The chili flakes hadn’t done anything.

There was exactly ONE common denominator in every disaster that night.

Danny.

Somehow, none of us got caught.

No squad cars came flying around the corner.

Nobody’s parents received a phone call.

And by some miracle, we all made it home.

Years later, I barely remember most of The Truman Show.

But I remember Danny standing outside that theater with a Super Soaker.

I remember that officer’s expression.

I remember running like my future depended on it.

And I will NEVER forget watching a grown teenage boy discover that chili flakes and dairy should remain in separate food groups.

That’s the thing about being young.

At the time, you think you’re just having another night out with your friends.

You don’t realize you’re creating the stories you’ll still be telling decades later.

And somewhere out there, there’s probably a retired police officer who occasionally looks at a Super Soaker and thinks:

“I still hate those little bastards.”

As for Danny?

I’d like to believe he grew up.

Matured.

Started making responsible decisions.

Maybe he’s got a mortgage now.

A retirement account.

Possibly children of his own.

But if somebody hands that man a Super Soaker and a bag of chili flakes at the same time…

I’m leaving.

I’ve seen this movie before.

—Andy