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“Truth … or Dare”?

As a kid, this phrase could be the embodiment of pure joy or the cupped hands of fear.  This phrase of options was the default go-to when you had a clever crew of guys (or guys and girls) together in a private place.

Playing this game revealed endless confessions that should probably never be revealed on the pages of “Small Town Stories“.  Confessions spewed frequently from the balcony of Fort Montgomery, the many rooms of Ridley Mansion, and from the circles of sleeping bags on tent floors – from small McRae, GA backyards to the vast wilderness of Canada.

Truth wasn’t the only thing that came out with our crew.  Bravery was the other solider that emerged in this battle of choices.  Bravery to tackle some of the craziest, riskiest, most insane dares on the planet … at least, for a young kid.

I’ll never forget this one night that a bunch of us were camping in my backyard.  These campouts were regular occurrences during the Summer months and weekends.  At least a handful of the chapters in “Small Town Stories” come from the mischief that happened on those nights.

It was my buddy, Tommy’s turn.  To our surprise, he manned up and proclaimed to the world his answer:

“Dare”.

My memory doesn’t recall the foggy details of who came up with this intricate plan.  I was still reeling in laughter from Wyatt’s order to go boof a tree.  I’m pretty sure this kid who introduced us to this new urban slang came up with this dare.

The dare was something like this:

1.  Sneak down to the big curve by yourself with no flashlight.
2.  Take this metal bat.
3.  Bang on the stop sign as hard as you can five times
4.  Then, scream at the top of your lungs, “Love That Chicken from Popeyes“.

This was a great dare, but the addition of singing a commercial jingle pushed it into a fantastic dare. I’d guess this was probably early-mid 1980′s.  This new jingle was on TV all the time … with a catchy phrase about Popeye’s Fried Chicken, and we were constantly singing it.  Of course, none of us had ever eaten Popeyes chicken.  You’d have to go to a big city for that.  We had the Dairy Queen and the Tastee’ Freeze, which regularly changed names.  I’m not sure if the Chik-King counted as Popeyes, but it was good enough.

Now the big curve was only a few blocks away, but it was probably 3:00 AM by now.  It was overcast and dark – no stars, no moon, no light.  Pitch blackness engulfed us on every side, pierced only by our single flashlight and the embers of what was left of our campfire.

Tommy stood up with a look of fear, defiance, and a touch of boldness.  He exited the tent and disappeared into the darkness.  And we waited.  Waited.  And waited.

On any other day a kid could make it from my backyard to the big curve in a few minutes.  We waited for what seemed to be hours.  Occasionally a dog would bark and we’d all get quiet and listen … and nothing.  Before long we began to throw out our ideas of what may have happened to our dear friend.  Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.  He’d fallen into one of those big ditches in the dark.  He’d been picked up by the police.  Or worse, he’d never really left and was lingering somewhere off the perimeter waiting for his chance to prank us.

Although reality says it was only 10-15 minutes, what seemed like an eternity passed.  We’d all given up on Tommy and gone back to our game.

Well, “when out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter” does no justice for this 3:30 AM instance.  Out of nowhere, the still black darkness was fractured into a million pieces.  That bat hitting that stop sign several blocks away was louder than any contraband M-80 we’d ever purchased from Livingston’s back room. It dwarfed the sound of any secret firework you could get from the secret closet at Rawlin’s Zmart.  I’d never heard such a loud sound in my entire life.

Perhaps sound travels better in the darkness.  Perhaps everything else is just quiet.  All I can say is that bat hitting that stop sign made every single one of us jump through the roof of that tent.  It echoed across the south side of McRae, GA like a bomb blast.  It was the 1980′s version of “shock and awe”.

Then, as if Danny Treadway himself were directing the vocals, you hear this loud, clear, gleeful melody soaring through the night:
LOVE THAT CHICKEN FROM POPEYES.

Not just once … OVER and OVER.  It was as if the adrenaline pumping through Tommy’s veins somehow got the repeat button stuck on his internal CD player.  LOVE THAT CHICKEN FROM POPEYES.

By now, every dog on the south side of McRae, GA was barking up a storm.  I’m pretty sure the lights came on in the Pierce’s house across the street.  And before the echo of that blast stopped rippling through the Great Woods, Tommy was back in the tent.

Homeboy was gasping for breath.  Sweating bullets.  We were laughing so hard I thought we’d each pass out.

And with that, our game of Truth or Dare came to an end, at least, for that night.  We’d awakened the Canine Choir and half the town.  I can only imagine that most parents stirred awake briefly and said to themselves, “those boys must be camping out tonight at the McKinnon’s”.

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*personal note:  this is another post in a series called “Small Town Stories”.  I alluded to this in my New Years Day post but never followed through.  The content of this category is totally different than the focus of the blog.  It’s not about worship or leadership, it’s fun, life stories and memories of growing up in a small town.  As always, memories are that … memories.  Names will be substituted where appropriate, and facts will be blended with fiction, or half-memories.  That’s what makes them fun.  If you enjoy this series, please let me know by commenting.