The woman known as the Purple Lady drew the mug of coffee to her lips and looked out the window at her yard bathed in spring morning light. She frowned and shook her head a little. The change didn’t register at first. It was subtle, something she couldn’t immediately put her finger on. Before she took a sip, it came to her in an instant. It wasn’t what she saw, but what she didn’t see. The mug fell slowly away as the shock set in. She pressed her forehead against the glass and looked back and forth to confirm. They were gone. All gone.
Mr. Crown drew the cup of tea to his lips and looked out the window at his yard bathed in spring morning light. He frowned and shook his head a little. The change didn’t register at first. It was so bizarre, so unexpected that he just blinked, re-booting his mind, hoping that perhaps he was hallucinating. But the image remained.
Susan drew the can of Diet Pepsi to her lips and looked out the window down her street bathed in spring morning light. She smiled and tilted her head a little. She could hear the spasmodic gasps of her cohort’s car before it came into view, so she stepped onto her front porch and recalled last night’s exploits with barely contained giggles. Margaret’s twelve-year-old VW bug, once considered white though now best described as some mix of street filth and rust, lurched into the driveway with a concussive halt. The grinding gears harmonized with the smothered litany of Margaret’s profanity.
The Purple Lady fumbled to set her coffee mug down, nearly spilling it in her haste. She ran outside to see if anything else was missing and to confirm that they had not somehow miraculously moved to another part of the yard. All five were gone, not knocked over, not moved somewhere else. Nothing else seemed to be missing or molested. Should she call the police? The thought seemed at once justified and absurd. While a crime had surely been committed, the damage—at least monetarily—was insignificant. Of all that graced her lawn, and there was much, they had stood out prominently among the rest, both visibly and in her heart. She felt targeted and a tear bearing her sense of loss and violation burned down her cheek. Who would have done this?
Mr. Crown sipped his tea and assessed the scene. He started counting but stopped at twenty-five, estimating at least a dozen more. He shook his head again, but this time with a smirk of appreciation. He could not remember the last time someone had pulled a prank on him. He marveled at the choice, at the execution. So simple. So elegant. So clean. Publicly mocking him with that which he found most artistically banal. He applauded the perpetrator’s crime against him, against taste. Touché. But he could not let the crime against property owners go unpunished. A lesson rather than laud would need to be doled out. He knew exactly who had done this.
Susan gulped her soda and quickly squeezed into the shotgun seat of the bug. Margaret shifted into reverse, looked over her right shoulder, and continued her stream of vulgarity into Susan’s ear, though directed at the car. Margaret seemed to believe it was fueled as much on angry, loud obscenities as gas and oil. She had procured both her colorless car and colorful vocabulary from her widowed, chain-smoking mother. Slowly, the brow-beaten vehicle wheezed and sputtered carburetor-induced hiccups as it backed out on to the street. The girls were high school seniors, both honor students. While Susan’s grades were primarily the result of her above average IQ, the expectations of her father also played a key role. He was the school district superintendent and saw the reflection of himself in his daughter run deeper than just the bright red hair they shared in common. He ran the family as he did the school district, with discipline, respect for authority, and expectation of excellence. He would not approve of what she had done.
Susan and Margaret had grown up only a few blocks apart. The halfway point of their trek to junior high (back when they walked to school) was the Purple Lady’s house. They used to muse that maybe the Purple Lady was some sort of witch, in part due to her dark brick home with a turret above the front door but also because she was just so peculiar. Her bizarre traits frightened them as children yet served to pique their adolescent curiosity. Some of the neighborhood kids knew her actual name, but they all called her the Purple Lady. Clearly, she loved the color purple. All her clothes were some shade of purple or lavender. Her lipstick and fingernails were purple. Her hair was dyed red, but it had a purplish tint to it. This was a pre-punk, 1970s, small mid-western community. She was hip where hip was scarce. Maybe more hippy than hip. Her yard ornamentation, which Susan now found fascinating, almost enchanted in composition, was considered by others to be less tastefully eccentric. Kitsch.
Mr. Crown was more than just Susan’s high school art teacher, he was her mentor. Even on his frame of more than six feet, the nearly three hundred pounds of weight he carried took its toll. He walked slowly with a cane, and usually remained seated as it was easier for students to come to him, seeking advice from their artistic Buddha. More than merely a teacher, he was an active artist, his current medium welding metal sculptures. A Surrealist, his works were abstract, familiar but with exaggerated features, avant-garde, progressive. The very antithesis of kitsch.
The one exception to the Purple Lady’s purple rule was pink. As in flamingo. Her yard sported not one or even two of the popular, plastic fowl, but five. She had a corner lot on a busy street, so the side and back yards got more attention from passing traffic than the average house. There were flowers (purple) and other yard ornaments… small Romanesque statues, a bird bath, a family of concrete, purple-painted gnomes. But on prominent display were the five flamingos. Permanently perched with necks erect and each with one leg tucked up beneath its wings. The tableau reflected in the funky, purple gazing globe on a pedestal.
Mr. Crown reflected his own unique vision of the world as a local artist for hire by night, and as the high school art teacher by day. He loved creating almost as much as he loved inspiring. He attracted and welcomed those looking to see beyond the everyday gray of their mid-western factory town. Helped them find new angles to see the ordinary in ways not ordinary at all. He didn’t show them how, he showed them the way, opened doors, planted suggestive seeds, provided a safe haven to experiment and instead of judging, asked the artist in the end, “Well, what do you think of it?”
He considered pulling the perpetrator aside quietly, congratulating her on a good prank, but explaining that taking property from others, even as the object of a good joke, was breaking the law. While prudent, this approach lacked the drama of the public pillorying that seemed the appropriate response to the public display of gaudy plastic currently grazing upon his sad excuse of a lawn. Tit for tat. But he could never expose her outright. He wasn’t mean-spirited and he really liked Susan. She had played upon his pride and his taste. He chose to play upon her guilt. And fear. Tit for tat.
Of all his current students, Susan was among his handful of favorites. She had blossomed from years of masquerading as the perfect student to reveal an unconventional sense of taste and wildly talented gift in paint and sculpture. Her quirky inspirations and styles tapped a source of truth hidden deep within her, kept under so much pressure to maintain the façade of perfection that it sprang forth like a gusher. She would spend hours after school in his classroom working on paintings, designing abstract murals for hallways and walls of the library. And on weekends in Mr. Crown’s garage-turned-studio, learning the craft of welding metal into large scale works of art.
The seed for the plot had come last Saturday afternoon during a conversation Susan had with Mr. Crown as he took a cigarette break outside his studio/garage. “You need some landscaping or lawn ornaments or something,” Susan said, picking a dandelion then flicking its yellow head. His yard was bare, the only ornamentation the dry, yellowed grass received was untended weeds.
Mr. Crown grunted a huff of dismissal as he exhaled his smoke.
“Seriously,” Susan said. “Some flowers. A trellis with grape vines…you could have your own vineyard! At least a birdbath or a garden gnome.”
“Suburban kitsch,” he spat. “After all our time together, this is how you believe an outward reflection of my taste would be manifest?” He loved to speak dramatically, his deep voice carrying as much weight as his frame.
Perhaps Susan’s bright red hair was some outward manifestation of the playful orneriness at her very core. Though not mean-spirited, she deviously savored a good practical joke. Her father’s role in the town and his edict of order and respect reserved her mischievous activity to strategic, rare strikes targeting only those people she liked, those closest to her whom she could double-over and giggle with in retelling the tale. Those who would not see it coming.
No one would ever think to prank Mr. Crown. He was such a beloved icon in the school and the community. Which was exactly why Susan felt the need to do so. In the end, he would laugh. Maybe not today. Maybe next week. Or next month.
Mr. Crown took another drag on his cigarette as Susan stooped to collect another dandelion victim. “An atrocious plastic flamingo glowing its nuclear neon pink,” Susan thought with Mr. Crown’s booming voice. That brought on a smile and as she flicked the yellow head, her inner witch took flight. “The very peak of tasteless yard art.” The seed was now planted.
The plan was fertilized that night when Susan and Margaret were en route to a secluded little park at the edge of town. Susan piloted the Blue Beast, a 1976 Buick Le Sabre. Though it was a cruise ship compared to the tugboat of Margaret’s VW bug, it required significantly less profanity per mile to operate. Susan’s parents owned two cars, and the Beast was slightly less embarrassing for her to be seen in by her peers than the faux-wood lined station wagon. It comfortably sat four adults in the back seat with leg room to spare and just as comfortably sat three in the front seat. They passed the Purple Lady’s house on the way to the park and Margaret cried out, “Jesus Christ on a pogo stick! She has five now!”
“Who has five what?” Susan asked, not slowing down, not even turning her head, not really much interested in what Margaret was complaining about, but bemused at the image of Our Lord and Savior once again dispensing Grace and miracles from atop a spring-loaded rod.
“The Purple Lady has five pink flamingos!” Margaret explained. “FIVE!”
“Does five make it a flock?” Susan asked.
“It’s about six too many, if you ask me,” Margaret replied.
The plot took root about an hour later, watered by the third PBR of the six-pack Margaret had also procured from her mother. “I know what we’re gonna do tonight,” Susan told Margaret, grinning like the devil himself.
They ditched the empty PBR cans and slowly drove the Beast back past the Purple Lady’s house. This time Susan did pay attention. Sure enough, there were five gloriously tacky hot pink birds practically begging to be liberated from the crowded purple menagerie and visit a home where they would truly be noticed. It was just past nine o’clock, and clouds masked the moon. But it was too early. Too many neighbors still had lights on. Too many cars still on the street. So the girls drove through town, biding their time.
As they did, they noticed other homes sporting the familiar pink plastic bird. It was odd, they’d never really noticed before, but now that they were attuned to them, they found the cheesy yard art displayed about every six to ten blocks. None had the numbers to match the Purple Lady, usually only a lone flamingo near a stone bird bath or a hanging feeder, as if welcoming the avian community to dine and cleanse there.
Susan turned to Margaret, expanding on her diabolical scheme. “How many of these do you think we can fit in the trunk?” she asked.
And so it began. They would circle a block slowly, looking for any possible signs of trouble. If all was clear, Susan would slow the car about three driveways ahead of the victim, Margaret would hop out and move briskly up the sidewalk while Susan paced her in the Blue Beast. Margaret would pluck the bird, dash to the car, toss the booty through the open back window and jump in. Susan would speed away. They struck for two hours as the unsuspecting homeowners slept. They would occasionally stop to move the plastic corpses from the back seat to the six-body trunk.
The last house on their tour, the coup de grâce, was the Purple Lady’s. Margaret fumbled, dropped, and stumbled over two of the birds, laughing hysterically. She had not had to grab more than two at any of their other stops. Susan nearly wet her pants giggling in the car as Margaret cursed and dropped the birds again.
Then Susan saw the approaching car.
She panicked. Margaret was still too far away, in the middle of the Purple Lady’s sprawling, overly adorned yard, fumbling with the awkward plunder. She couldn’t yell or honk the horn without raising unwanted attention and estimated that the oncoming vehicle would pull up alongside her at the same moment Margaret would arrive with her arms full of evidence.
So she drove off, leaving Margaret behind.
Margaret stopped laughing. What the hell was Susan doing? Had this been an elaborate prank on her all along? She wouldn’t put it past Susan. Then she saw the other car. She hit the ground fast, like a soldier under fire. She hoped that in the dark she would blend in with the other odd shapes in residence on the corner lot. The car slowed. Margaret’s heart raced. Was it the cops? Was her flamingo cooked? Would she be caught pink-handed? Then she remembered the stop sign at the corner. The car hadn’t even made a complete stop, not in this quiet neighborhood at this time of night. It turned and disappeared.
Margaret got to her knees and looked around for anyone, anything else. Then she saw the Blue Beast pull back up on the opposite side of the street. She grabbed the birds, by their sticks this time so she could get them all, and ran for the getaway car. The birds and Margaret all tumbled into the passenger side at once. Susan accelerated before the door was closed, nearly doubled over the wheel laughing. Margaret spat a few choice and appropriate obscenities, then joined in the laughter as they drove to the as yet unadorned yard of Mr. Crown.
It was after midnight when they rolled up in front of his house. The street was dark and the spring night had become chilly and damp. Susan and Margaret could see their breath as they quickly emptied their stash of stolen goods from the trunk and planted them as if haphazardly grazing on Mr. Crown’s front yard. They drove off without headlights or shutting the trunk to remain as stealth as two giggling high school girls possibly could.
Later that morning, Mr. Crown looked out at his classroom from behind his desk. Susan dutifully gathered her canvas and supplies, avoiding any direct contact with her teacher. Even the slightest chance meeting of their eyes across the room might lead to her undoing. She uncapped the tubes of acrylic paint and got to work on her project.
Mr. Crown had a large canvas of his own on an easel at his desk. He used it to illustrate whatever lesson needed to be taught that day, brush technique, blending colors, lighting, perspective, composition. A green pastoral field beneath an ominous gray sky was where the painting had been left since the last tutorial. He carefully chose two tubes of paint, squirting a bit onto his palette and mixing them lightly with his brush.
He typically called the class to order with a resonating baritone announcement. Today it was the absence of his voice that quieted the class. His normally genial smile replaced by a scowl. He held the brush in his hand like a bloodied weapon discovered at the scene of a crime. After a minute or so of awkward silence in the room, he spoke.
“Something happened,” he began, “at my home last night. While I slept in my bed, safely (or so I thought), a barbaric attack occurred just outside upon my lawn.”
Everyone was frozen. Who would vandalize Mr. Crown’s house? It was beyond the pale! He befriended everyone, but especially the disenfranchised. What sort of monster would turn on this artist, this, the coolest of the high school staff?
“Imagine my shock,” he continued, a little louder, “my poor little heart seizing up a bit as I sipped my tea, parted my curtains to discover…” Here he paused and, with a deliberate turn to his easel, stabbed the canvas squarely in the middle with a bright splotch of pink. He turned slowly back to the class to finish his thought, “…an obscenity upon my lawn.”
He played the drama up to the fullest, hoping to fill his transgressor full of pride in a job well done, only to prick her ego just as she was about to burst. He dabbed once more at his palette and again, with violent disregard, smeared more pink across the landscape. He didn’t look at anyone in particular. He didn’t even seem to be accusing, just sharing the story of his alarm at this crime. He provided no more detail. The students were left with their vivid imaginations and the odd pink carnage to fill in the blanks as to the nature of the attack. Clearly, it was devastating.
“I could excuse this crime if it were only an assault on my artistic sensibilities,” he said, a little softer but with the same intensity. “However, evidence of actual criminal activity was also present. If the situation is not rectified by tomorrow morning, I will be forced to engage the proper authorities. And I don’t think that will be limited to the police.”
What was he talking about? He had to stifle a smile as he looked upon the bewildered faces of his students. “They probably think I intend to call in the F.B.I.” he mused. He allowed a quick glance in Susan’s direction and was immediately rewarded. While every other face in the room was rapt with attention and shock, her gaze was squarely on the canvas in front of her. Her cheeks and neck burned a scarlet so bright, it may as well have been a capital letter embroidered upon her shirt for all to see. The great pranker had been pranked. Of course, he would never rat her out, but she couldn’t be certain. He was anxious to see how she would respond…how she would get through the next forty-five minutes of class. Would she admit her guilt? Would she restore the universe of his boring yard to its proper order? It would be a good laugh later when he revealed to her that he knew all along. That would teach her.
He used another few moments of awkward silence to pan the class with a final scowl as he composed himself. Then, as if starting with a fresh canvas, his mood swung back to normal and class went on as expected.
Except for Susan.
She could feel her face and neck burning, but could do nothing. On the outside, she remained silent, focused on her painting. Inside, she struggled with a torrent of clashing emotions. Part of her nearly passed out with fear. Not for upsetting the delicate sensibilities of Mr. Crown. She knew he was putting on a show. She only wished she could have seen his expression when he first saw the decadence of kitsch displayed on his front lawn. What she hadn’t considered was the authority whom Mr. Crown threatened to contact. Was he bluffing there too? She couldn’t be certain. For it was not the police he meant to turn her over to. No, far worse. It was her father, the upstanding school administrator and long-time friend of Mr. Crown. Punishment from him would be much more devastating. Mr. Crown knew this. That emotion, real and terrifying, mixed like the acrylic colors on her palette with the equally intense feeling of pure joy. A urine-inducing fit of giggles was barely being suppressed as she applied the paint to her canvas. Her mission had been a success. Perhaps too much so.
He made no specific indication that he knew it had been her. But, surely he knew. Who else would be so bold? So completely on-target? But what if he thought it was someone else? What if he involved the police and the school authorities? Her father would find out for sure then and somehow she would be exposed.
She had to move quickly. There was no time to bask in her victory. Her father could not find out. She had, after all, technically stolen property. Even though the infractions were minor, they were multiple. And an arrest notice in the paper featuring her name would be far more unsettling to her father than Mr. Crown’s revelation of her caper.
“I could always tell Mr. Crown after class,” she thought. They’d have a good laugh. But then he’d know for sure it had been her. Maybe he was trying to trick her into confession. Oh, no. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. A good prank was like a good joke or magician’s trick: explanation brought about ruin.
After school, Susan met up with her accomplice. “Sooooo?!?!?” Margaret asked, bursting with excitement. “Did he say anything?”
“We have to put them back,” Susan told her and continued walking. Margaret’s mood drained quickly to dread. She followed Susan down the hall trying to catch up and swearing like the proverbial sailor.
That night did not start with PBRs. They needed to remain focused and calm. But adrenaline raced through their veins as they pulled up to Mr. Crown’s Home for Wayward Waterfowl. The moon shone bright on the cloudless night, leaving them feeling even more exposed. They quickly gathered their flock, dispensing them with little regard back into the abyss of the Beast’s trunk, but the birds didn’t seem to fit. Had they multiplied on their own in their twenty-four hours of faux feathered fraternization? Whatever the reason, the girls grabbed a few and shoved them in the cavernous back seat, slammed the trunk and sped away.
It wasn’t until after they had fled the now-cleaned scene of the crime that they realized, they had not paid close attention to the exact locations of the various homes they’d taken the birds from, let alone which specific bird belonged to whom. They all pretty much looked alike, but they were different sizes, slight variations on the color pink. Their flight plan had been one-way.
They drove back to the secluded park at the edge of town, by way of a quick stop at Margaret’s house and her mother’s fridge, to noodle through to a solution. Again, the third PBR of that night’s six pack provided the answer they sought. It was so simple.
# # #
Mr. Crown drew the cup of tea to his lips and looked out the window at his yard bathed in spring morning light. He smiled and nodded his head a little. The yard was empty. Mr. Crown got the last laugh. His message had been heard. It had been a good prank, but Susan had needed to be held accountable for her actions. She had been bad, but she’d learned her lesson.
The Purple Lady drew the mug of coffee to her lips and looked out the window at her yard bathed in spring morning light. Her eyes widened and she shook her head a little. She was confused. It was so bizarre, so unexpected that she just blinked, re-booting her mind, thinking that perhaps she was hallucinating. But the image remained. She walked outside.
As if by magic, the Purple Lady’s lawn was filled with not five, not ten, but more than thirty plastic pink flamingos. All seemingly content to graze or pose without a care. Around the neck of the one nearest to her door, a note hung tied by a string. She pulled it loose and opened the paper which read:
“We were bad. We ran away. We were just having some fun, we didn’t mean to ruffle any feathers. We are sorry.
P.S. We made some friends.”
