The Thrill of Fear

It’s why we tell ghost stories. It’s why we adorn our homes and yards with creepy decorations around Halloween. It’s why we continue to watch spine-tingling scenes in a movie even when we want to hide under a blanket. There’s something thrilling about being afraid. That is, when the stakes are low enough. These days, there are plenty of real things to be afraid of, and I fear that as a result kids today are being denied the thrill that comes from being modestly mischievous.

When I was a burgeoning teenager, there were two houses my friends and I toilet-papered with regularity, both occupied by a classmate named Suzanne. We had nothing against either Suzanne. We weren’t “into” either of them. But their yards had trees, lots and lots of big, glorious trees, practically begging to be layered in fluffy cotton sheets, and we willfully answered the call.

Our preparatory trips to Kmart attracted stares from patrons and cashiers, as my friends and I pooled enough of our money together to purchase 40 or 50 rolls of toilet paper. When I consider the cost of a pack Charmin today, I wonder if this would be a feasible pursuit in 2023, but in 1981, a bunch of 13-year-olds with meager means could buy a lot of toilet paper.

We’d hang out at our buddy John’s house until late at night, spinning records and playing ping-pong. No beers. No smoking. It was pretty innocent stuff. But around 2AM we’d head outside donning dark clothing and prowl across the wonderfully unfenced backyards of Brookfield, Wisconsin, stealthily making our way a half a mile or so to our target house, where we’d launch roll after roll of toilet paper high over tree limbs, draping the maples and oaks in curtains of white while we kept watch for lights flickering on in the occupant’s home. Hearts racing, adrenaline gushing through our veins, we gleefully finished our task and raced back to our home base, careful to remain hidden from the occasional car in the early morning hours.

There came a time when TPing wasn’t enough – we needed to raise the stakes, and raise the stakes we did by adding a pièce de résistance after completing our toilet-papering: a blast of firecrackers and a glaring flare, its red light eerily glowing off the sheets of white toilet paper, elevating what could have been classified as an act of vandalism into a work of art.

If the flash of light and the explosion of gunpowder wasn’t enough to accelerate our hearts and strides, the car that went after us shortly thereafter surely was. Someone was pissed, most likely Suzanne’s father, and – especially in hindsight – understandably so. We had just jolted him from his peaceful slumber in the most abrupt way, causing a panic that I can only imagine.

Oh, but the thrill we felt! It was exhilarating and positively life-affirming. The gleeful charge of dipping our boring suburban toes into danger was unparalleled by anything else happening in our town.

I’ve raised three kids, all of whom are now adults, and I guarantee that none of them were allowed to experience the same sort of adventure that my friends and I had as youths. With yards surrounded by high privacy fences, with motion-detecting lights, video doorbells and security cameras recording our every move, and with the very real possibility that a homeowner could seek vengeance not with a call to the cops but with gunfire, I fear the days of innocent thrilling fun are over.

A shame for our youth, though I suppose not for we adults who are spared the heart-stopping panic of a brick of firecrackers exploding outside our windows. In that sense, we’ve had the best of both worlds.