It wasn’t really blood. I want to make that perfectly clear from the start. I mean, it definitely looked like blood. Especially when it got all over my hands and dyed the shirts pink we used to mop it up with. But it wasn’t really blood.
Maybe I should start at the beginning. Back when we went into the basement and stole the ping-pong table from the church. With permission, that is - stole with permission. It fit in the elevator too, wonderfully enough. It’s one of those fold-up-in-half kinds, and we felt grandly clever wheeling it out the church and up into the back of the pick-up truck (helped by several sheets of plywood that served as an impromptu ramp). Maid Marian and Lady Kluck were finally going to be able to practice their serves and backhands for their thirty seconds of ping-pong ball fame. Truly, we could not have been more thrilled. But then the folded-up sides (they looked like poised wings on a bird) wouldn’t quite stay in place without some help, so two of the kids jumped in back to hold it in place. While I sat in the driver's seat, talking on the cell phone to assure the other kids waiting for us at the school that we really were coming. Which would have been fine if the cop hadn’t driven by right at that exact moment.
And then turned our direction a block later. I thought we were done for. For all I knew, kidnaping a ping-pong table (even with permission), wrestling it into the back of a pickup, and eliciting the help of minors to do it might be a federal offense. Worth life at least. So, I quickly got off the phone. After yelping, “Oh, darn! It’s a cop!” One less strike against me. Maybe they’d reduce the sentence to 80 years. With bated breath and wide eyes, I waited for the cop to come around the corner, lights blazing. Maybe he’d even called for back-up. Those ping-pong table thieves can be pretty slippery, so they tell me. But then - miracle of miracles! - he never came. Must’ve been going for donuts.
Deciding not to wait around for another law enforcement officer to drive by, we gunned the corner, doing about 2 mph, past the courthouse, just a few blocks from the police station, and finally to the school. Where all the kids who were waiting for us happily helped us unload our abducted prize, and I went around to the passenger side door to get the paint out.
That’s when the little quart jar of bright red paint decided to commit suicide. I opened the door, and the poor little thing flung itself out without a moment’s hesitation. I’m pretty sure I heard an, “Aaaaahhhhh!” as it nosedived, slow motion, towards the pavement. Then - CRASH! The can flopped once and lay still, the lid jerking to one side, and red paint spewed everywhere. We’d just created a new point of interest on the elementary school’s parking lot.
Which looked disturbingly like a puddle of blood. Right next to the playground too.
I ran for a couple old shirts (we used them as rags), one of those paint stir sticks, and an empty roller tray. Maybe I thought I’d paint the entire parking lot. After all, with the whole thing that color, this one spot couldn’t be so obvious. When I rushed back to the scene of the crime, the puddle had definitely gotten bigger. With the help of my brave, speechless minors, we started scooping away, pushing and shoveling and conjuring the slimy stuff to go somewhere a little less visible.
In the process, I got it all over my hands. Looked up once, towards the road, at the nice little houses sat across the way. I’m sure there’s an 80-year old grandmother living in each one. With a cat named Fluffy and a rosebush. “Wow. This looks a lot like blood,” I said out-loud. Then I glanced around furtively, hoping no one had heard me.
Finally, the paint partially cleaned up, I rushed back inside, across the gym floor, headed for the bathroom. To wash my bloo- I mean paint-splattered hands off. Opened the gym door to step out into the hallway and was met by two rows of faces sitting in the plush chairs of the conference room across the hall. They were meeting now? I almost waved - you know, in a real nonchalant, cool sort of fashion. Then I remembered my hands, stifled the urge to cram them behind my back, and dashed into the bathroom.
Woohoo! Free at last! They’ll never catch me now! The evidence will all be washed away down the drain, and - Wait a second. What was I saying? I hadn’t even done anything wrong. I mean, it wasn’t like I had killed somebody! Although I was a bit concerned about how I should approach this with the school principal. How exactly could I explain that the fresh red stain on their parking lot isn’t really blood. I mean, I know it looks that way, but . . .
