I was living here on the third floor with seven other guys. It was a total frat-house thing–the reason why landlords don’t want to rent to 21-year-olds. We’d made a road trip to Indiana to pick up some fireworks, including some tennis-ball-sized mortar shells–you light ’em and drop ’em in a tube and they fly out. We were in the kitchen shooting these things into the alley between the houses behind us, toward the trees on Racine Avenue. They were exploding at treetop height, and all this stuff was raining down on the cars. When we ran out of those we started shooting BB guns at the streetlights. We were plinking away at the streetlights and they were just kinda bouncing off them. Apparently, however, they were ricocheting off the streetlights onto a cop car. The next thing we knew, these cops were storming up the back stairs. We decided to go hide in the bedroom and hope that they didn’t know it was us. They got up on the landing and were pounding on the door screaming, “Open up.” We were hiding in the bedroom, scared to death. Eventually they left, and we chose not to mess with streetlights anymore but decided to shoot BBs at each other instead. This is like the ultimate 20-year old guy story, isn’t it?

–John Sisson, graphic designer/photographer