Good Pranks Gone Wrong (Ep. 8): Who You Gonna Call?

Hello and welcome back to another re-telling of one of my practical jokes that didn’t turn out so well. As much as I love to prank people, you would think that every one of my acts were well-planned. Thought out. Well, that’s truer today than it was yesterday. Back then, I definitely could have used a little more instruction and, more importantly, patience and advice with my decisions.

In high school, I was definitely more daring and even less caring. Which is why this one went foul so easily.

But enough about that, let’s get to it, shall we? It’s time to tell the final tale for April Fool’s month…

Good Pranks Gone Wrong (Ep. 8): Who You Gonna Call?

East Chicago, 1984

It was a good time to be alive, the 80s. Music was at it’s best, the women had all the beautiful colors and cool (sometimes a little too much) makeup, big hair was in, malls were flooded with activity, fast food tasted its absolute best and technology was starting to make its advancements. One of which, was the phone microphone.

It was a simple gadget, really. Nowhere near as new as the other devices. But it was available for personal and private use: A microphone jack connected to a suction cup by a cord. But oh, what we could do with it.

My friend Bob had one at his house and someone got the idea that we should run it into his cassette recorder and record prank phone calls.

And what do you do when someone comes up with a good idea?

Correct! Use your powers for evil!!!

My buddies and I, formally known as The Cruisers, all gathered at Bob’s house for an afternoon of Atari 2600 games, music on his multi-deck stereo system, popcorn and sweet iced tea, which his mother used to make whenever we hung out.

With his mother being gone this particular evening, we broke out the cord and tape recorder and decided it was time to get into some sedentary shenanigans.

It wasn’t long before the unanimous decision was made that I be the one to make the calls, for two reasons:

1. I supposedly had the voice for radio, since my voice change was complete and I had an entirely new and unique sound and,
2. I was also famous and trusted for my so-called persuasive, on-the-fly antics.

The latter was the reason they often called me “Eddie”, as in Eddie Murphy, after his quick-witted and beguiling ways in movies such as Beverly Hills Cop, Trading Places and 48 Hours. In fact, they called fellow Cruiser, Pete and I “Nick (Nolte) and Eddie” because of our differences in race, size and approach.

And because we were always at odds with one another for some stupid reason, mostly music. But that was us. On this night, we were on the same page.

For the better part of an hour, I called people we had randomly selected out of the phone book (kids today have no clue what life was like back then) and pretended to give away prizes as I presented myself as a D.J. at some previously unheard-of radio station in Chicago. My buddies sat in different rooms, huddled around the phone, smiling in silence as I made people scream excitedly, knowing they were prize winners for doing things like singing ridiculous songs, or naming Snow White’s seven dwarfs, or naming the Seven Deadly Sins, or all of the seven continents.

The funniest call was with the woman who thought “Sleezy” was one of the dwarfs. I wonder where her mind was. It didn’t matter, I gave her the victory anyway and an imaginary $1,000.

You know, I just realized that all of these were in 7s. Lucky number. Too bad the night wasn’t.

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The night was going well, recording all of the telephone conversations for future laughs, when I got the idea to call my house and see if I was good enough to fool my mother. Of course, no one thought that I could, her being my mother, the woman who had known everything about me since birth. That only encouraged me to go ahead with it. I wasn’t one to back down from a dare OR a lack of faith in my abilities.

We all returned to the rooms as the others covered the transmitters of the other phone. Once the snickering died down, I dialed my home number and sat back long enough to hear the ringing end after just the first ring.

“Hello?” (YES, it was my mother)
“Mrs. Davis?” I began in an authoritative, resonant tone. “This is Officer Finsky at the East Chicago Police Department.”
It was the first thing on my mind, not having prepared for the call, the most important part.
“Okaaaay,” she answered slowly, sounding as if she knew it was me.
“We’re calling to inform you that we have your son, Kenneth here at the station for armed robbery and assault.”

Silence.

I looked at my buddies, Sam and Robert, who sat next to me with their ears as close to the phone’s receiver as they could get.

“Hello?” I said again, waiting as the other end continued without sound.

“Hello?” a younger male voice answered on the other end. It was my brother Craig.
“Craig,” I began in my normal voice. “What’s going on? Where is-“
“What did you say to mom?” he interrupted as I sat, bewildered.
“I was playing a practical joke. I was pretending to be-“
“Bring yo’ butt home NOW!” another voice interrupted, having picked up another house phone. This voice deeper, much deeper.
And grown.
And angry.
It was my father.

*click*

Sam and Bob looked at me with mouths wide open, faces gone pale. I looked down towards the entrance of the other room where the other three Cruisers stood in the doorway, knowing full well who my call ended with.

Everyone in the group, the block, the city, churches and school system knew who “Big Ken” was and knew he didn’t kid around when it came to his family. In his gaze alone, he gave you the feeling that he would snap your neck in a heartbeat if you so much as THOUGHT to threaten anyone in the Davis household.

They also knew that he ruled and raised his children with an iron fist, or should I say, a long, leather belt. Not that he was abusive in any way, but he was “old school”. And no, he did not belive in “time out” (more like KNOCKED out). He once told me that ‘if I don’t whoop you now, someone else will out in the street, in life’. And he meant it. Thankfully, because of his stern, unswerving ways, he kept me out of prison and the grave. I thank him NOW for all that he did for me, but definitely not back THEN.

“Uh, guys, I gotta go,” I said flatly in defeat. They knew why.
They knew this night had gone too far.

They also knew not to walk me home, even if I had asked someone to come along to hopefully delay or prevent any action from him with them present. Not that that ever worked. My father would get ahold of any of my friends if he suspected they were up to no good, with or without me. They would get whatever I got as well. And his methods were both approved and praised by their parents, along with everyone else in the neighborhood.

“You sure you guys don’t want to come?” I asked nervously. “My mother might have made some cookies tonight.”

“Are you sure you WANT us to come?” they asked, indicating that I might not have wanted them to bear witness to my impending doom – or theirs.

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The walk from Bob’s house to mine was only bout 6 or 7 minutes.
I tried to make it last 6 or 7 days.
It felt like 6 or 7 seconds.

The “disciplinary session” seemed to last 6 or 7 DAYS.

There is no funny ending to this particular tale. No epilogue. No moral of the story.
My mother was just briefly stunned, but she was alright.

I wasn’t.

Just know that this one time, this one prank, was one I never considered or attempted again.

And other than you all reading this, this tale is remembered only by those who sat with me when it transpired, as well as those who waited home for me, and finally those who sang and howled my ballad of lamentations in both sympathy and empathy, all night long.

You know, you would think I would have learned my lesson that night, but of course I didn’t.  That’s why I have more stories to tell… 

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Special Announcement: “Good Pranks Gone Wrong” has been renewed (thanks to popular demand) for another season and will be back in April, 2025 with all new tales.

Because I’ve been bad a lonnnnnng time.

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