Corning Cars - "Thrill found in juvenile mischief"

This story was published over a decade ago in the Indianapolis’ Southside’s Spotlight newspaper as part of my column “What’s your story?” I had a story writing/recording website by the same name.

Though every life has many stories, mine included, one story stands out in my mind as very vivid and emotional.

My story begins when my cousin Larry and I linked up with what seemed like nearly the whole male teen population of Haubstadt, a small southern Indiana town, on one normal weekend night in the fall 1986.

I knew nearly all of the boys my age, but this night brought out even more than the usual group - about 25 kids.

Everyone was there for one thing - to "corn" cars.

The corn appeared out of the cover of night. They filled five-gallon white buckets that were full of "borrowed" silo corn.

The hordes of ‘teen bees’ moved about the small yard of what I vaguely remember to be a small siding-covered house centered in a tiny hamlet just outside Haubstadt, Indiana -- over one small ridge, surrounded by massive fields, and yet nestled beside one large wooded area shaped like an amoeba …which was even darker than where we kicked about on a mostly moonless night.  

Lugging buckets of corn across about a two-acre field that sat in front of the few houses, everything unfolded without any explanation or initiation rites.

On the other side of the field and at the base of the ridge, stood a small grove of trees that stretched back from the country road to form a line between two fields. Everyone grabbed two handfuls of corn and walked to the frontline trees at the roadside.

With corn stuck in between my fingers and welded within my hands by the sweat of anticipation and fear, I joined the group.

Out bellowed the yelling call of the self-appointed watch, "Car coming!"

Though I was one of the first persons to have the car cross my path, I certainly threw near last, late enough that I probably merely assaulted the wind in the car's wake and not the car itself.

But the sound of the barrage of corn that careened the car set off every warning flag in my mind, "What have we started?"

Oddly, the car showed brake lights, but no faces. Quickly, the car was gone.

With barely enough time to reload and to dispose of the last victim, I heard the call for, "Truck!"

The corn blasted the semi like snaps and pops in one's own head. This turned out to be mere entertainment for us only, because the truck neither stopped nor braked.

If the truck was a let down, the next car lit my existence on fire. After I recovered from how well the car skidded to a stop on a corn-laden road and with more deafening sounds than the first, I soon realized the reason for the swaying posturing that we presented to the previous car.

When this car's passenger jumped from the car and ran to the back bumper, those sways stopped and the mass of youth emerged from the woods to ‘negotiate’ with this faceless person’s proposition for conflict.

After a brief standoff where the driver realized that he was in for a personal corn shower, he departed with and in his fervor.

Then came the call, "Game Warden!" Though I thought it was time to run, I soon found out that no passerby went uncorned.

The game warden's Bronco had pace. The machine gun fire sounded the same, but the screeching tires and twirling lights reminded me where the rush of this thrill originated.

Here I thought that part of the game was not to get caught, but that disillusionment was now gone.

There was no street battle. When it was apparent that he had a bull's-eye on us, the leaders abandoned their positions in the roadside woods and darted up the trees lining the two fields up to what became a sizeable ‘woods’ of about five acres, but seemingly endless to us.

Everyone stopped at the entrance of the darkened back woods and watched as the Bronco's light searched the area and found nothing. He sat and probed for a minute before leaving.

In minutes after the game warden left, everyone recrossed the field and took up their posts. The next call told no one what was next; we all saw it at once and the cheers were twice as loud.

This white patrol car was coming from town probably with news about the excitement and I knew that this game had another level.

It was only 10 seconds before this car found his confirmation all over his windshield. No one lingered in the woods to study his face as he blasted our haven.

Next, I saw his spotlight blazing the homes and fields as he went up the access road of the mini-neighborhood.

Just as his light could not penetrate the woods, I found myself chopped down by limbs as they hit my chest and legs as we all bolted deeply into the center of its darkness. No one kept any dignity in the woods; it was a mad race of the blind.

I tried to follow Larry and note any place where he took abuse from the shrubs, trees and logs. It didn't work.

Soon he was the only other person that I knew existed in the woods. Everyone became a shadow. When the patrol car saw no one exit our five-acre fortress, he turned around, returned to the homes for a second inspection and left.

With the police now gone, everyone returned to base camp.

Immediately, Larry and I were scooped into one of two truck beds. As I looked at the corn bucket in my truck, I listened to how we were going to corn a house with metal siding.

The house corning consisted of jumping from a truck, two quick throws and some ridiculous noise, and a quick departure. My truck left first and lost sight of the other as we crested the hill and returned to safety.

Many minutes later, the other truck returned with news about being caught. The police told them they had to return to the station with more people from the group.

One of the leaders looked at me and said, "You're not from around here. They won't mess with you."

I looked at my cousin and said, "I don't want for Larry to get in trouble because of me. I'll do what he decides."

In the silence that followed, the idea was dropped and Larry and I stayed back with some others.

My decision soon disappointed me.

After 30 or so minutes, the truck returned and reignited the festivities. They told tales about the police telling them jokes and putting their names on a list.

The only part of the story that sounded like anything more than some extension of the fun that night was a verbal warning that if they were caught again, their parents would be told.

The lesson - don't get caught twice.

Feeling both elated and slightly bummed, I returned home with Larry proud that I had experienced something invigoratingly exciting and dangerous but that changed my view of the world in only a few hours of fresh autumn night air - corning cars.

Here is a blog post that discusses this in the middle.

What's your story?