Fun and Games Until Your Bishop Loses an Eye

Who could have known our Bishop would be driving with his window down, on a 10F frigid night. Some bizarro bend in the fabric of the Universe all aligned that night, and the chase was on.

“It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.”  Our Mother was a big fan of that saying.  It’s not always one of the two knuckleheads that nearly loses the eye.  What if it’s the leader of your Mormon congregation?  The Bishop.  A bizarro fold in the fabric of time and space, that brings your snowball together with the Bishop’s face.  Who happened to be driving by.  With his window partially down.  On a frigid winter night.  “This kinda s**t only happens to you.”  I have heard those words spoken at me more times than I can count.  I mean come on, my one and only trip to Magic Mountain, returning back to LA on the 405, and a certain former NFL star decides to do a runner from the Roscoes (cops).  Yep, my two brothers and I stumbled into the middle of the O.J. chase.  And that’s not even Top 5 weirdest. 

On the winter night in question, it was after s**t had gone terrible wrong for our perfect “forever family.”  The six cars, gone.  The big house on the hill, also gone.  We were now living in what our small town would call “the wrong side of the tracks.”  My sweet Mother, Mary, had been a housewife for 25 years.  When her husband decided to mortgage everything twice, buy a sweet Benz, trade Mom in for a younger model year, and run off without providing a dime of financial support.  “Dad” turned out to be merely  “the biological donor.” 

In addition to her full-time job, she always had a second and third, sometimes, fourth part-time job on nights and weekends.  Hambo and I, Hamilton, my little brother, and wildling right-hand-man, had plenty of extra time to run wild.  Unleashing our inner hooligan trickster on the unsuspecting town.  We made the most of it.  We had a Nintendo, but that was for extreme snow days and brutal heat only.  Our trickster shenanigans were more the live-action variety.  Some serious DIY s**t.  The weeknights when Mom was working were referred to as “Running With the Wolves” nights.  It had snowed two feet during the previous 24+ hours.  Whatever brand of mayhem we were engaged in, we had the perfect hiding spot to do it.  Next to the road we had hollowed out a nice little slocket in the thick hedge row.  Enough space for both of us to disappear into.  Invisible, even if you walked up and stared right at us.  So long as Hambo didn’t let his trademark giggle leak out. 

We were hunkered down inside the house, bored with whatever was on TV.  “I’m bored,” Hambo complained.  “Snowballs?”  I suggested.  “Yes indeedy,” he agreed.  A clear starry night with temperatures down at about 12F.  We bundled into our full body snowmobiling suits and standard moon boots.  It was 1986 after all.  I was 15, Hambo 12.  Any snow and slush had frozen solid, the loud crunch of cars passing confirmed this.  By the time we reached our hideout and begin engineering our first snowballs, there wasn’t a car for many minutes.  Working on the same snowball for all that time, it was more ice-ball by the time any action headed our way.  Business was slow.  The snow was so deep, it took some effort to posthole the hundred yards from our apartment to the hideout.  We were about ready to call it a night.

“Dude, I dunno, this might break a window,” Hambo said, smacking the rock-hard snowball with gloved hand.  Before we had any time to discuss the ethics of such an ice-ball, a deep V8 growl, through custom exhaust kit broke the silence.  A two-toned Suburban, brown and white came roaring toward us.  Among Mormon Dad’s, this was a real man’s machine.  Nothing stock about that engine and exhaust system. “Raaaahhhhhrrrrrrrr.”   Hambo is already giggling as I bark out orders. “Prepare to engage.  Starboard bow,” I had become obsessed with naval terminology.  “Dude, what if we have to run, I couldn’t even walk without my moon boots falling off.”  I ignored his concerns. 

Stepping out and hiding behind the hedgerow, we hunkered down.  Waiting for the perfect launch point.  As the rig gets closer, it starts to look a bit familiar.  “Is that…..” before finishing, I stood up to launch the projectile, with maximum torque and velocity.  Every kid who ever played sports or shot knows, you have to lead your target.  Moving targets, it’s all about the proper inputs and calculations on the fly.  Just after release, “Ohh shiiit.”  I said.

After the snowball left my hand, Hambo and I both saw something that gave us pause.  Not only did we recognize the identity of the target, but that his window was rolled down about 8 inches.  This gentleman was a local oral surgeon, but, that was only secondary in importance.  He was our Bishop.  Our congregation’s boss-man.  He had been plowing his practice’s parking lot after the gnarly snow we had received.  Fogging up inside, the Bishop had rolled it down partially.  Before I even finished the word, we saw the snowball disappear into the open window. Still at a high velocity, as I threw it as hard as I could.  The rest is a hazy blur.  The combination of skidding on crunchy, icy roads, and the squealing/giggling of Hambo is all I remember hearing.  It’s tattooed onto my humanoid hard drive.  The skidding seemed to go on forever.  We were in full flight already by the time he came to a stop. 

Running around the backside of our apartment building.  We couldn’t run in the front door with Brother Bishop right there.  Hambo didn’t take two steps and I see one of his moon boots laying sideways in the snow. “Dude, my boot.”  With one scooping motion, I grabbed Hambo under the armpits.  “Grab it,” c’mon.  The truck had finally skid to a complete stop, sideways in the middle of the empty road.  The headlights now illuminating our preferred escape route.  The door slammed.  Brother Bishop yelled angrily.  Echoing off the homes and buildings, and carrying clearly in the  frigid night air.  “S**t!  Hey, you little b******s.  I’m blind.  Stop!  S**t, ow, s**t.  Stop.  Right now! Stop!”  Hambo and I were post-holing and battling for every step as we heard the crunch of rapid footsteps on the frozen road.  Rage.  Pure rage.  At lower volumes, so the entire hood couldn’t hear: “My f*****g eye.  F**k.”  Woah, I didn’t know Bishops even knew such words.  “Did Bishop say that?”  Even Hambo was alarmed.  Between the cuss words and the crunch of approaching footsteps, we were utterly terrified.  This was far scarier than any Horror Movie monster.  In our minds, this guy wanted to straight-up murder us. 

“Matty, just leave me, I can’t make it.”   “Dude, the wolf pack always stays together,” I delivered the line earnestly, as if it were a bad action movie script.  If Brother Bishop went to the front of the building, we had no chance at making it through the one and only door.  The front door. Running behind the building, we had to loop around the far end of the building and escape in through that door.  He would surely cut us off, but he stuck with the perp prey.  He pursued the footsteps behind the building. Luckily, there were several trails of footprints going hither and thither, slowing him down momentarily as he guessed on the proper perp prints. 

I wondered if we should run for the woods, and not lead him back to our house.  Despite our fear and panic, Hambo was still giggling.  “Dude, be quiet, he’s chasing us.”  Wide-eyed, Hambo looked over his shoulder. “Dude, c’mon, just run.”  The more I demanded silence, the harder Hambo laughed.  The harder I laughed.  Just like the Sunday Dinner table as kids. The more pissed off the old man got, the harder we laughed.  Until final, inevitable, ejection.  Mom always snuck a fully loaded plate to us, so “without dinner” was never much of a disincentive, despite the old man’s threats.   

My adrenaline meter was redlining.  I felt like the Incredible Hulk.  As Hambo now clung to both boots in his hands, I manhandled his giggling carcass like he were no heavier than a Barbie doll.  I would’ve have given anything for a backdoor. 

As we rounded the back of the building, emerging out front, my heart sank when I saw the pristine sidewalk.  Plowed and salted.  The only thing remaining would be our snowy footprints, freshly deposited.  Bread crumbs for the hungry beast pursuing us.  Making Brother Bishop’s job far too easy.  Booted or socked feet, it didn’t matter.  I didn’t care.  I just didn’t want to get throttled.  All we cared about was making it back inside. Evidence, apologies, responsibility and consequences, in that moment, none of it mattered. 

We make it.  Open the door, and I dump Hambo in the entryway.  “Hide all our stuff in the bathroom, get under a blanket on the couch, you were asleep.”  Collecting every piece of winter gear, he threw it in the bathroom and shut the door.  Superman dived on the couch and got under a blanket. I turned on the TV and hit play on the VCR.  I began collecting snow chunks around the door in the entryway.  Using my socks for towels, I shuffled over every inch of linoleum to remove any evidence.  I was sure he was 5 seconds behind us, but it seems to have taken almost 60 seconds for the bang on the door.  Time I made good use of.  Wrapping a blanket around me, I rubbed my eyes a bit and tried to appear sleepy. 

Brother Bishop didn’t wait to deliver another set of rapid-fire bangs on the door.  I casually opened it.  Oh s**t, I was not prepared to see what his left eye looked like.  It filled me with fear.  He was covering it most of the time, but when he removed his hand, it looked extremely painful. Red and already swollen, he couldn’t open it all. The medical term for it, AFUM.  “All fucked up maximus.”  I felt awful.  Genuine remorse.  One of those moments you realize just how serious the consequences may be.  Was this guy’s eye gonna be okay?  Was it still attached?  I didn’t feel bad enough to deviate from my sworn philosophy.  The Billy Clinton school of “deny, deny, deny.”   I had been suckered into believing before.  By Roscoes or authority figures, only once before.  “Confess, repent, and we’ll go easy on you.”  The only time I did that, my confession was quickly weaponized, used to bludgeon me.  To bludgeon the people I was promised would go free if I only confessed.  The opposite of leniency.  I learned a valuable lesson.  Don’t fall for that, no matter what.  Some form of plausible deniability, however small, a margin for possible doubt, is far better than removing all doubt.  I believed the Billy Clinton school was the only way to fly.  This was long before I heard of ol’ Billy, but hey, it’s how I viewed the world back then.  In a small, religious town, once you get a reputation, that reputation is weaponized and used to beat you down, almost gleefully.  The Japanese have a proverb, “The nail that sticks out, will be hammered down.”   So it is in my small town, but the enjoyment many authority figures displayed seemed the polar opposite of “Christian” in spirit, and practice.  

“What the hell are you boys thinking?”  Brother Bishop wanted to wrap both hands around my skinny neck.  Rag-doll me up and down that sidewalk.  “I furrowed my eyebrows, pulling my blanket tight around my shoulders, “Umm, what do you mean Brother Bishop?”  He looked sincerely confused by my response, dress, and demeanor.  I didn’t look like I had entered inside seconds before.  He stuck his head in the door and looked around.  Then again.  He looked long and hard at the bone dry linoleum. Looking closely at Hambo on the couch.  Who deserved an Oscar.  Hambo slowly turned and sat up.  Appearing as if he was just  jolted from a deep sleep.  Hambo gave a long, confused expression, facing Brother Bishop.  Brother Bishop stared back.

“Where’s the snowsuits?”  He demanded.  Before I could answer, Hambo did.  “What snowsuits?  Our snowsuits?  Why?”  My heart sank as Hambo stood up and started across the floor.  I wanted to interrupt him.  Thinking he was about to present our soggy snow gear.  But, he was one step ahead of me on the chessboard.  “Upstairs.  In the closet, you wanna see them?”  Hambo was about to present the other two, unused snowsuits.  A masterstroke.  His cunning was learned from many a run-in, following all manner of trickster incidents with Roscoes, teachers, Church people, you name it.  Today’s youth develop proficient skills with video games and social media.  Ours was all live-action experience.  If we had spent our time learning an instrument or something useful, our proficiency would likely impress.  Hindsight, ya know.  An archive full of crazy stories is what we came away with.  I nearly said “all” we came away with, but memories and stories from real experiences have a value that can’t be overlooked.  Especially as the world becomes more virtual and cyberspace, as opposed to hands-on, real world, experience that crazy s**t yourself, don’t just read about it. Or watch a staged YouTube video. 

Hambo’s confidence really threw Brother Bishop for a loop.  Hambo was absolutely convincing.  Hell, I believed him.  The confident, justified anger and outrage drained right out of Brother Bishop, like a cartoon character transforming from one color to another, before your eyes.  “Well, no, it’s okay.”  He was silent.  He don’t know whether to s**t or wind his watch.

“What happened to your head?” I asked.  Pretending I didn’t know where his injury was or how it happened.  As he removed his hand, I felt slightly better. It was obvious, the orbital bone area took the brunt of the blast.  Not his actual eyeball.  He was gradually opening it a bit.  Don’t get me wrong, it clearly hurt like hell.  I saw my opening.  “Did those Williams boys get you?”  “Who?”  I pointed to the small ramshackle house across the street.  Several rusted out cars on cinder blocks dotted the front yard.  In our town, the ideal, go-to perpetrator.  With perfect timing, the two mangy, long-haired hooligan Williams boys entered the front porch and sat down for the show unfolding across the street.  Perfect timing for us, unfortunate for them. 

They were actually nice kids.  Sons of an alcoholic, out of work Father, they did find plenty of trouble.  Probably guilty about half the time.  But, deep down, they were nice kids.  Kids I felt guilty for judging once I knew them and their backstory.  It was a dick-move to muddy the waters by incriminating them.  But I knew both their parents were home and would gladly confirm their innocence. 

Their arrival and smirking faces surely didn’t help appearances though, in that moment.  They got blamed for everything, and let it roll right off their backs.  Hambo piled on.  “Yeah, they were out there throwing snowballs all day.”  “We’ve been watching ‘Private Eyes’,” I said.  The Don Knotts and Tim Conway movie.”  “You know, the Wookilar,” Hambo chimed in.  

“You guys weren’t just outside throwing snowballs?  Right now.” He asked.  

Hambo and I looked at each other, “No, unh uh.”  “Brother Bishop, check our snowsuits, they would be wet, or cold, right?”  Hambo pressed his advantage.  “Let me show you.”   “No, no, it’s okay.”  He gave us a long look up and down.  He was riddled with doubt.  Where he had been absolutely convinced of our guilt just seconds before. 

He was at our door for a few minutes.  It felt like hours.  “I’m a surgeon. I could have lost my eye.”   “Do you need to come inside, or something?  Do you need anything?” I asked.  He may have doubted whether we were the perps or not, but he was in no mood for charitable assistance either. We expected him to march across the street and interrogate the Williams lads.  He just stood there, at our door.  Not knowing what to do.  It was as though he didn’t want to let us escape by ending the interrogation.  As if his one and only chance was slipping away, and would be lost for eternity if he ended the conversation.  After one last long look, without saying a word, he turned and walked off.  “Okay, um, bye,” Hambo said cheerfully. We shut the door and moved to the window.  Peering through the blinds, we listened to his crunchy steps as we walked back to his abandoned rig, sitting sideways in the middle of the road. 

Before entering, he turned and just stared at our apartment.  Shook his head, got in, and slowly drove away.  Up the hill, and out of sight.  Hambo made an observation I thought was spot on.  “He didn’t stare at Williams house.  He stared at our house.”  I agreed, “Dude, I think he kinda knows.”  “Haha, he does, huh,” Hambo said. “I thought we were dead, though”  He added.  “Yup. Me too, getting out of there in one piece, no cops, and no real proof, that’s the best we could have done,” I summarized.

Normally, we would have gleefully rehashed our victory.  Play by play.  Who said and did what.  Hit rewind over and over.  This was time was different.  The man’s injury left us feeling rattled.  Saddened by the close-call.  

I didn’t see much of him in the coming years.  Whenever our paths did cross, he didn’t pretend, or play nice.  Extremely rare in Utah Mormon culture.  People pretend their best friends seconds before blowing each others heads off.  He gave Hambo and I the stink-eye, grande.  Whatever doubt he may have felt standing in our doorway, he wasn’t our biggest fan following the incident.  He was pretty sure we were the hooligan punks who damn near put his eye out of his head.  Fast forward 7 years.  Any question I had about Brother Bishops feelings were made quite clear.  After returning from a Mormon Mission to Japan, my congregation was a young singles congregation.  The Church was within 1/4 mile of the scene of the crime that cold February night in 1986.  Even as a young wildling, you never want to blast someone in the face with a snowball.  Hambo and I were grateful there were no lasting repercussions with Brother Bishop’s health. 

My first Sunday back, Spring 1993.  I parked and with scriptures in hand, I walked up the front steps of the Church house.  I didn’t know who the Bishop was to be.  Hearing a familiar voice, I looked up.  Standing at the doorway, shaking hands with every young soul entering the building, there he was.  Brother Bishop.  His smile dropped as he laid eyes on me.  It wasn’t a neutral expression.  It was fiercest, stankiest stink-eye maximus I have ever seen.  His initial reaction was to not extend his hand.  I thought he was going to leave me hanging, but he grudgingly gave me a quick dead-fish handshake.  Without saying a word.  He quickly reaffixed his smile and greeted the dude behind me. 

He could never muster a fake smile, or fake handshake whenever we made eye contact.  I couldn’t blame him.  He probably thought I was the spawn of Satan, how Hambo and I played him in the aftermath of that snowball shooting the gap into that open window.  Conned him.  And, so damn convincingly.  I think that pissed him off as much as the snowball to the grill.  If I would have been man enough to confess and apologize, I’m sure he would feel different.  As it were, I can’t really blame him. I was still stuck in that philosophy, “I, DID NOT, throw that ice-ball, at that man. I did not do it!”  That was my story, and I was sticking to it.  Thanks for reading.  Stay frosty, and aerodynamic.  Until next time…..