S.W.A.T Training for Paper Girls

For several years when I was a kid, I had a paper route. Most of my siblings did also, but I would usually do the weekly route with my younger sister, Danielle.

On one particular day, Dani rode up onto a police officer's driveway, but instead of depositing the paper at the foot of the garage she handed it directly to a woman who was sitting inside. We knew the man who lived there, and we knew his two children, but we'd not seen this woman before. She was very friendly, made small talk with Danielle, and we were on our way.

It turns out the woman, Eva, was the police officer's new wife. We began to see her each week, and soon we became friends. Although she was much older than my sister and I, we got on well. It wasn't long before we were going jet skiing with them, or spending the night at their house.

One evening, Eva's husband, Larry, was preparing dinner for us and we were out in the cul-de-sac killing time. Larry came outside for a bit, and in keeping with the norm, began badgering Danielle and I.

See, we had always prided ourselves on the fact that we were tough girls. We had grown up with four older brothers essentially kicking our asses on a regular basis, our parents made us toe-the-line when it came to household responsibilites, and so we developed a certain coarseness. We were tomboys. And Larry knew how fiercely we would defend that notion.

Therefore, he cranked up the reverse psychology - full force - by stating that he didn't think we were tough enough to handle the tear gas he had in the garage (apparently, it was left over from his days as a S.W.A.T. officer or something, but in any case, it was industrial-grade product).

Of course we were tough enough.

"Yeah, HUH!" we screamed in unison. "OK, you're probably right" he said, "after all, I had to complete the tear gas section six times at the Police Academy because it never made me cry. I'm sure you guys will be fine."

He enabled the gas bomb in the cul-de-sac, then quickly took his place on the front porch, a safe distance from the mayhem that was seconds from materializing. Gas started billowing towards the sky and within seconds we were enveloped. We began coughing violently, and running for safety. Larry yelled, "Get back in there! Make another pass!" He had instantly morphed into our own personal Drill Sargeant. Tears were cascading from our eyes but for some reason, that to this day escapes me, we obeyed. "Hurry up, or you're not getting ANY dinner!" he bellowed.

We loved his cooking. We were starving. So, we ducked and ran.

We were back in the thick of it, and by this time my lungs felt as though they were going to combust. I could scarcely see my little sister writhing in what I was sure was excruciating pain. I'm going to die, I thought. And she is too.

I was thrust from my panic-stricken thoughts by the sounds of laughter. Could it be? Larry? Laughing? Yes. YES. He. Is. Laughing. We. Are. Dying.

...

I should probably mention the fact that any number of our neighbors could have been watching the entire spectacle, seriously debating whether to call Child Protective Services. After all, watching two girls flail about in a storm of tear gas while a large paternal-looking figure of a man hysterically laughs from the porch is not exactly a comforting image.

Yet, miraculously, we made it out alive. And without the help of our neighbors or law-enforcement officials, thankyouverymuch. Granted, our eyes were swollen like tennis balls, bloodshot and teary, and we had horrendous coughing fits for an hour afterwards that eventually led to vomiting, but...we were alive.

And, being more than a little distracted by our physical state that evening, we never even ate Larry's dinner.

It's interesting how we seek out experiences in the hopes of proving something, but when all is said and done, what we prove or learn is rarely that which we sought.

At the time of our unanticipated S.W.A.T. training, Danielle and I were 8 and 10 years old, respectively. At that age all we desired was prove to the grown-ups that we were as invincible and strong as we felt. Unfortunately, our attempts failed miserably. What we did prove, however, was that we were ballsy as hell and we'd do nearly anything for a taste of Larry's famous cooking.