Tagging

Mario first tagged Jordan, who went on to tag Rinaldo, who then got Noelle, who targeted Nick, who then got me, who ultimately got Mike. In our quest for mischief in a sleepy town, Barbie’s were mutilated, frosting was misused, Saran Wrap became a holding cell, and immunity wasn’t granted to anyone. The Wethersfield High School parking lot was our battleground, and in the months leading up to graduation, war was declared.

The senior’s parking lot stemmed off the pool entrance on Eagle Drive. There were never enough places to park, and yet we still got ticketed for hauling our Jeeps and Explorers onto the islands at the end of every row. It was a sanctuary to the smokers who secretly snuck out during class changes to lean against the brick wall and blow their smoke rings while verbally bashing Mr. Moore and his monotone drone. It was where Scott changed Alyssa’s completely deflated tire after she ran over a nail. It was an alcohol exchange location on weekends, a witness to countless after-school fender benders, and the depot where the fan bus transported our painted bodies to and from championship games. It was also where no car was safe during a tagging war.

Jordan’s sleek, silver Saab was the first car casualty . Known for her superior organization, innate fashion sense, and her overall high level of “guy appeal”, Jordan’s chic Saab was perfectly suited to her personality. Her ridiculously good looking dad, Steve, made sure that the Saab was well maintained and required Jord to bring it to the car wash every week, keep it vacuumed and free of trash, and uphold the utmost respect for the car she was given. To understand this, is to understand my utter shock and amazement when Jordan didn’t faint at the sight of her car after Mario tagged it.

Saran Wrap, honey, maple syrup, and PlayBoy were the magic ingredients to the demise of the Saab’s beauty. Strutting into the senior lot after the final bell of the day brought us our freedom, Jordan placed a death grip onto my arm as we approached her car. As I lurched backwards, a little surprised by the strength of my five foot tall friend, I caught a glimpse of what she had seen.

Taped to the front and back windshield and every window of the Saab were tantalizing centerfolds, courtesy of Hugh Heffner’s flawless silicone beauties. Jordan, the poster child for discretion and modesty, frantically raced to unlock the driver’s side door, only to discover that not only was the entire car entrapped by layers of Saran Wrap, but a drenching coat of honey and maple syrup topped it off.

Watching the scheme unfold, Mario and the rest of the boys high-fived one another and held their stomachs as they doubled over in laughter. They had engaged us in battle, without expecting much of a retaliation, but there was no way that us girls were flying a white flag signaling our surrender.

What followed were weeks of search and destroy missions. We tagged the boys’ cars while they were left unattended at baseball practices, or during their ultimate Frisbee sessions on the turf. We kissed our Barbie’s goodbye before we dismantled them, laid their limbs and torso’s out on the hood of a car, and then squirted and smeared ketchup all over to complete our battle scene. We later walked out of dance team practices to find our own cars turned into rolling versions of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, complete with bread, soggy from milk, stuck on wherever possible.

Classes that spring were skipped to run covert missions down to Bliss Market to attain supplies. When Mike thought he could out smart us by illegally parking in the teacher’s lot, we hit him hard with Operation Cupcake.

Chocolate frosting covered every glass surface of his Jeep Cherokee. Rainbow sprinkles added the birthday flair we aimed to achieve, as did a very generous helping of chocolate sauce to coat the hood of his car. Though we debated lighting candles on the roof of his Jeep, it was ultimately decided that being imprisoned for arson was not the way to we would succumb in this battle.

As our car tagging war forged on and spread to the rest of our class, none of us gave much thought as to why it was called “tagging”, or why the operators of Mr. Sparkle Car Wash had started to shake their heads when we drove into their facility, hanging out of rolled down windows in order to be able to see where we were driving.

To this day, I have no idea who won the war, or how much money we wasted on buying supplies and washing our cars three times a week. I couldn’t tell you what I missed in those classes I skipped or those dance team practices I spent hovering around Dance 10’s windows in hopes of catching an attack on our cars.

What I can tell you is this: the senior parking lot on Eagle Drive holds a hell of a lot more than just cars to me, and the class of 2005.