So mean?

It is as if playing pranks is encoded into boys’ DNA. There’s clearly a noticeable section in the code that reads: ”the condensation of stupidity”. We managed to engage in all sorts of mischief as elementary school children and high school students. However, we only truly carried out our first overt act of mischief after finishing school.

On a typical Finnish midsummer night glowing with warmth and light, having clearly crossed the threshold of adulthood, we stumbled out of the pub, perhaps slightly unsteady. Or it may have been a late-night house party, who knows? You know, those afterparties that only end in the wee wee hours. In any case, from the direction of Otaniemi, with Cassu and Pekka, I walked along the familiar sandy road of Hagalund Manor, homeward bound.

The glowing halo of the summer sun has just dragged itself over a roadside birch grove in full leaf, inspiring birds to tune their too shrill territory whistles. A massive structure is rising on the edge of the manor area. It’s a water tower construction site, Pekka knows. Our sprawling glances register a large compressor lying in the middle of our path; such a massive Atlas Copco device that is towed behind a truck on wheels. There must be something particularly annoying about this bright yellow machine, because with the superpowers bestowed by alcohol and the relentless determination of the drunk, we unanimously tip it into the ditch with a loud crash. Soon we separate, contentedly going our own ways.

The satisfaction turns into remorse and shame a couple of days later as I squint at the local weekly mag at the breakfast table. ”Nighttime wanderers wreaked havoc at the water tower construction site!” screams the headline. In the black-and-white photo, there is a group of grim men gathered around the slightly battered compressor like some illegal big game hunters behind a fallen rhinoceros. However, it has been lifted up and the site foreman thanks the subordinates who participated in the lift, assuring that the work will continue without delay. It’s vandalism, says the foreman. And that’s exactly what it is: foolish and thoughtless, pure hassle inspired by a state of drunkenness.

A few years earlier alcohol played no role in making mischief. The road verge on ”the chicken coop” side of Menninkäisentie is growing with lush rosehip bushes. In September, most of the berries glow red and ripe. Berry wars are fought enthusiastically and when the contents of a roseberry are slipped into a friend’s collar, it serves as an effective tickle powder.

Throwing overripe roseberries on friends does not entertain anyone for long. What else could be done with these ripe delights? Menninkäisentie is by no means a major thoroughfare. Cars go by infrequently. The busiest time on weekdays falls around five o’clock. The answer comes immediately brought by a passing Renault with a little devil whispering instructions on someone’s shoulder. The next car gets a splash of half-rotten berries on it. The bushes are in full leaf and thick, so the driver can’t see anything from the car until a well-timed load hits the windshield.

We have taken some precautions in advance: one of us has gone to check that the gate leading to the backyard of Veli-Matti, who lives in the neighboring house, is open. So, the escape route is preset. Throwing berries on cars is starting to get boring. No one even bothers to stop. Most of the motorists are familiar and they guess what’s going on. A squirt of windshield washer fluid and the journey continues without stopping. It’s also difficult to hit a fast moving car. Many motorists unwittingly manage to avoid the berry bombardment. 

The warm autumn evening is already starting to dusk when a big American automobile glides out of the road’s curve. The car is a convertible model and cruises at a slow speed with the top down. On a joyride is an unknown young man with his girlfriend. Half a dozen boys are whispering behind the bushes with berries in their hands. One, two, three, NOW! Hits come in. Some berries are still raw, hitting on the sides and hood of the car with a nasty pop and snap. Brakes are squeaking and doors are banging. ”Bloody brats! Now you’re going to get a beating, and a proper one!”

A commotion arises behind the bushes. Six boys scatter effectively in different directions. The three fastest make it through the gate to the backyard, with the last one clicking the lock shut. The enraged driver is left struggling with the iron gate. The cursing awakens the house dog. Veli-Matti’s father appears with the dog to ask the reason for the noise. The exchange of words only lasts a moment, as the authority of my friend’s father, a former combat pilot, takes effect. The young man dejectedly kicks some berries on his walk back to his car. The doors slam shut and the car speeds away with the tires screeching. We also get a taste of Veli-Matti’s father’s sharp reprimand, although the situation also seems to amuse him somewhat. We promise to stop throwing berries – especially on convertibles.

Urinating on the sauna stove at a swimming pool is definitely a Finnish specialty. That prank is easy to implement during the school’s swimming slot in the morning when there are just a few other users of the pool and one of us keeps watch at the doorway leading to the pool. A terrible stench arises from it – and also a commotion, as soon as the first pensioner, stiffened by the cold water, stumbles into the sauna to warm up. ”Who the hell has pissed on the stove!”

The culprits circle around the angry old man, grimacing at the pungent smell. Soon, there’s a quiet laughter in the changing room for a good prank. Just then, the stern figure of the swimming pool’s boss, old man Kasvio, fills the doorway of the changing room and starts to intimidate the boys changing their clothes. Fortunately, there is enough solidarity in the group that the act can be blamed on the hooligans from Matinkylä who had just sneaked into their bus.

We never repeated the prank, but the smell of urine would erupt every now and then from the sauna department. The guys from Matinkylä had been up to their pranks again, was the amusing assessment of our own gang.

As a sort of counterweight to urinating on the stove, a week or two later, we were sweeping brown and gray lumps floating at the bottom of the deep end of the pool into the bottom drain. For this heroic deed, Hassan and I not only receive thanks but also a free swimming session. We would have never come up with something so grandly stupid ourselves…

We have another negative encounter with the swimming pool and the Kasvio family, who are responsible for its supervision, one evening in September. Our regular route home from the sports field to home on Menninkäisentie runs past the swimming pool. In the chill of autumn, we notice steam pushing out of the plinth’s ventilation hatches. A sharp right turn to investigate the phenomenon, someone suggests. The steam rises from the women’s dressing room, where a beam of bright light falling from a partially open narrow window cuts through the thickening darkness.

It’s peeping, even though while pushing each other away and looking for a better view, we can’t see anything other than fluorescent tubes and white tiles. We make enough noise that the door to the neighboring residential area slams open. It’s Mr. Kasvio and his wife who greet us with some rough language. However, the departure speed of boys who are just into the second decade is such that we have already managed to hide in the nearby woods before the shout ”I know all of you, damn fools!” reaches our ears. A couple of days of swimming break might fit in this weekend, just to be sure.

A little younger, windows once again take center stage. Heikki, Tom, and I play with Airfix plastic soldiers in a sandbox, simulating the first, second, or third world war. War is cruel, plastic people die and miniature material gets destroyed. In the fine sand there are pebbles that fit nicely into a boy’s fist, so we have hand grenades. In the heat of battle, Heikki is inspired to demolish the enemy bunker with them. A grand sound it makes when the thick glass of the small-paned window of Block A’s cellar shatters. Tom and I look at each other: Sergeant Heikki is in trouble. A spray of machine-gun bullets nearly sweeps the good sergeant’s legs. We must rush to the rescue. Grenades fly and hit directly in through the shooting opening of the bunker. The enemy is destroyed!

Six stoned window panes divided by three makes two for the price of five hundred marks each. The heroic trio is taken to a collective chiding. They’re asked for reasons for such madness. Explanations roll out with hysterical intensity and tearful regret. It’s only at home in the evening that I realize, in relief, that the habit of giving an additional punishment, a spanking, has been forgotten. The promise to refrain from storming the bunker in the future is also upheld. Municipal engineering men will come to repair those broken windows later in the week.

I’ve come home from Aarnivalkea Primary School. The keys I’ve forgotten again and no one comes to open the door no matter how much I ring the doorbell. However, the neighbor across the hallway, dentist Paalanen, opens her door and asks if I want to wait at their apartment. I shake my head in horror and rush down the stairs.

I sit on the steps outside waiting. I put my backpack between my feet. Granny is probably at the shops. I fumble in my pockets again. I find the bike key in the coin pocket of my James jeans. That’s not much comfort right now. I twirl the keychain around my index finger. Where is Granny delaying?

Look how smooth the surface is on that red brick. It’s as if it’s demanding something. I scratch an R into it, then an O and a B. Soon my whole first name is etched into the dark red brick. Time passes. The work continues. I’m already carving an O. Oscar… how I hate that name. With a good reason.

Oscar the Nonexistent, Zero Street Zero, stairs made of shit,
A skeleton elevator, and on the door it says: ”Oscar’s tit.” 

The well-known nursery rhyme rings in my head. O turns into R. Ramberg. ROBERT RAMBERG. In big letters.

Granny is nowhere to be seen or heard. I need to pee, badly. The bathroom window seems to be ajar. I open the front door and jam it open with the doorstop. I carry my backpack behind our apartment door. I glance at the open window again, climb up the window frames of the door, and squeeze myself in through the bathroom window. The wood scratches and the window rattles. Dust and paint particles float down. I worm my way in, taking support with my hands from the edge of the bathtub. Quickly to pee. Aah! What a relief! I pull my backpack inside and clean my clothes of the dust and bits of cracked paint. Then I see a note on the kitchen table. 

”Robert dear. I’m at the doctor’s examinations all day today. Take a meat pie and milk from the fridge for a snack. I will be back at three and will make some proper food. Granny” 

The door opens.