Growing Up Eighties, Chuckie, 3

The third unintentional attempt on Chuckie’s life took place that same year. Room: Basement. Weapon Used: The Lead Pipe. Suspect: Yours Truly. Again. And this one looks much worse than it is written out as a Clue Spoof. I take that back. This was the worst. Naaa. Second worst. Maybe third.

We liked to start marching bands. My neighbor and I combined our two Playskool drum sets so that we could have a Marching Band Symphony. We were marching around the house and neighborhood, proudly playing every instrument (tambourine, drum and Kazoo) in the set. Our band had an age limit. Chuckie was too young to join, but he was trying desperately, chasing us around the block and onto neighboring porches.

We marched into the house and through the kitchen, turned left to make our way into the basement, where we would start our parade over from the garage.

During this time, Chuckie managed to take apart a basketball set for a pipe, which he was pretending was a trumpet.

Not wanting to end the parade so soon with fighting and knowing that we had another round to make we quickly slid into the garage, we ignored Chuckie’s trumpet.

The door between the garage and basement was a death trap, like everything in the Eighties. It opened from the basement and swung into the garage, quickly snapping itself back into place.
My neighbor led the way through the door. Not wanting to put any of my three instruments down to hold the door (we were part of a parade, after all) I quickly leapt into the garage, the door slamming behind me and in front of Chuckie, pipe in mouth.

Ironically, he must have been playing the trumpet with his eyes closed (proving that this is his fault again. If he closed his eyes when he was supposed to, two attempts could have been avoided) because he walked right into the closed door, lodging the pipe down his throat.

We went to the emergency room for this one.