Whoopee Cushions are for Amateurs
by Marit Hanson
A thud sounded at the door, too low and muffled to really count as a knock. In the leaden quiet of the swallowing night, it could have been anything – the wind, the building relaxing from its daily tensions, a gummy-eyed student on her way to bed. Normally, Leslie and I might reward such a sound by grunting and burrowing further under the covers, if we responded at all.
Tonight, however, the noise crackled through the anticipation-stretched air. My hand was at the doorknob in a flash, twisting it slowly so as not to make a sound. Peeking through the crack, my face split into a giddy grin that was mirrored instantly by the two girls outside the door.
“Are you ready?” Mia whispered, excitement pinching the end of her question into a squeak. She was dressed entirely in black, as planned. Behind her, Natalie’s tight black top and pants clung to her little belly and every curve of her short, slender legs.
“Yeah,” I whispered back, gesturing to my own black dress pants and baggy shirt. “We’re ready.”
It was a quick slip across the hall to Mia’s room, but I darted from my door to hers as though dodging gunfire, crouched and jerky. Leslie followed at a more sedated pace. Inside, the other girls were putting finishing touches on our arsenal, filling the air with flying glitter and the scent of permanent markers. I bent and gingerly picked up the nastiest of our weapons by the string and watched the cotton pendulum swing in lazy circles. An impish snigger escaped my lips, which was echoed by the circle of girls. Let the ambush begin.
Like many other hapless teenagers, I spent my high school years listening to parents and teachers extol the first year of college as a beginning, with a capital B. A chance to reinvent myself or find the true self that was buried under layers of pubescent insecurity. Buoyed by their sunny predictions, I entered campus with my hands outstretched to receive the promised clean slate. My wide eyes envisioned a sparkling future. Academia would open its benevolent arms to me, promising days of invigorating mind-cultivation and nights of covert moral corruption.
This illusion, of course, only lasted for about six seconds. Then I, along with the rest of my ingenuous class, learned the disconcerting, messy, spectacular truth. Freshman year is a discombobulated war, nuttier than squirrels hopped up on caffeine.
Flung into an unknown sphere, most of us without our high school friends, we latched on to the first stable group we found – our dorm corridors – and put down roots of belonging. More than roots – steel cables would be a more appropriate term. We acquired a pack mentality, moving in tight clusters and sizing up the other students as potential allies or foes. Our intimacy gave us a sense of security, and gradually we relaxed into our new environment. And then cut loose.
“Does everyone have tape on theirs?” Natalie asked, proffering the Scotch roll. “Yeah? OK, let’s go.”
“This is so wrong,” I muttered as we filed out of Mia’s room, arms full of ruby-stained biological warfare.
Although this prank was our most elaborate to date, it was far from the first. Maturity, as dorm life soon taught me, is a very subjective idea. We were legally adults, yet we ran about the tenth floor of our dormitory like 10-year-olds.
The bathroom was a dangerous place for those uneducated in the ways of prank making. Towels and bathrobes had a bad habit of disappearing midway through showers, leaving the dripping girl to bellow the thief’s name (and other colorful language) until someone took pity on her and returned the pilfered clothing. Hot showers were occasionally interrupted by buckets of ice water being dumped into the stall, accompanied by manic giggles. Over time, I learned to identify the victim by her shrieks; Susan was always the loudest.
With each new prank, we gathered more tidbits about one another and used them to plan the next escapade. Natalie was the creative trickster, deftly turning old fruit, garbage bags, and duct tape into weapons of mass destruction. Mia was devious, dousing her victims with buckets of water and then scurrying back to the safety of her room. Danielle was the gullible sweetheart, laughing good-naturedly when she found herself the subject of our hijinks. Leslie and I were Switzerland, the observers, shaking our heads at the antics of our floor mates.
Despite the frequent scuffles among ourselves, we banded together to fight the menace living beneath our feet, the ultimate enemy, “cooties.” In our minds, the boys on the ninth floor were our natural enemies, the dark to our light. Their masculinity presented fresh ground for the “battle of the sexes”; or it should have anyway.
The problem was they were just too passive. We teased and cajoled, bullied and flirted, but they simply refused to retaliate. How could we have a nemesis if all the nemesis wanted to do was play “Halo 2”? It was unacceptable. Something had to be done to reawaken their indignation of our gender.
Thus, the Great Pad-and-Tampon Assault was born.
“OK, Leslie and Marit, you take the rooms to the left. Nichole, Susan and I will get the ones on the right. Mia will keep the door open,” Natalie said, singling out groups as we piled into the elevator.
“Come back as soon as you’re done.”
We nodded, trying to look solemn and failing miserably. A short ride down and then we stole stealthily onto the floor, fanning out with our glittery, red and purple weaponry. Dashing to the left, I slapped the adhesive side of my maxi pad on the first door I reached. Two doors down, Leslie tied tampons around doorknobs. I could hear the other girls snickering across the hall, unable to contain their excitement. First to finish, we flew back to the elevator, zinging with adrenaline.
For some unknown reason, the boys on the ninth floor had decided to hang a pair of pants on the bulletin board in front of the elevators. Mystified, yet feeling that our caper was not yet ended; we took them hostage and replaced them with an old bra. “DON'T MESS WITH PMS,” the C cups declared in permanent marker. The gauntlet had been thrown down.
We returned to bed reluctantly and rose early, eager to hear the horrified shouts as our enemies discovered the surprises we had left for them. Eight o’clock. Nine o’clock. Ten. The morning waned and still the floor below us lay silent. Bewildered, we finally got the nerve to send Natalie downstairs to spy on our would-be victims. Less than two minutes later, she burst through the stair-door, crestfallen.
“They’re gone! The JCs took them down!”
Foiled! We had forgotten to take the residence hall advisers into account. Every mark of our assault had been removed long before our nemeses stirred from bed. Not even the bra – our under-wired emblem – remained. The enemy wandered the floor below, forever oblivious to our designs. Chalk up one point for Team Male.
Our spirits, however, were not dampened for long. We would bide our time, content ourselves with bathroom pranks for the moment. They had won the battle, but the war was far from over.
After all, we still had the pants.
Published 29 January 2009. All Rights Reserved.