Not everyone is cut out for life as a comedian.
I learned about a decade ago that I am most definitely included in that statement.
Around that time, my family lived in an Army house on Fort Benning, Georgia.
When we moved into the house, our request to add a chain-link fence around our backyard was approved by the department that controls the homes on post – we’ll call them “Housing.”
You might think that a fence is a pretty inconspicuous thing, and for a couple years, you would’ve been right.
The trouble began with a mostly blank envelope in our mailbox – no postage, no return address.
The only indicator that it was even meant for us was our incomplete address, “116 Eames,” scrawled in red marker across it.
The mysterious delivery contained a letter for my dad, alerting him that our fence was not in compliance with their regulations.
Housing now insisted that fences must be built in alignment with the walls of the home. We were in violation because our fence jutted out to include an extra couple of yards toward the end of the street.
It seemed like a pretty dumb thing to get hung up on, both in my 13-year-old opinion and my dad’s adult opinion.
Housing didn’t agree.
The letter included two options for my dad: get rid of the fence, or pay to have it built to Housing’s new standards.
After calling and trying to reason with them, my dad quickly learned that Housing was not in the business of negotiating.
My dad then decided he was not, either.
My brother and I felt like we had a front row seat to an epic Battle of the Titans: Dad vs. the Army.
Every Friday we felt almost giddy because we knew what would be waiting in our mailbox: another “116 Eames” envelope.
About a month later, as I saw my dad’s car pulling into the driveway after work, I went to check the mailbox. I was shocked to see that there was no letter from Housing.
I knew I could stall my dad for at least five minutes if I let our dog outside to run around and play with him in our noncompliant fence.
While he did, I scrambled to type and print a letter from “Housing” letting my dad know that he had until Monday to finally remove the fence or they would do it for him. I even found their logo online and included it at the top of the page to look like their letterhead.
I forged the signature that was included on every other letter, then shoved it into a white envelope.
The final touch: I grabbed a red Sharpie and scrawled 116 Eames on the front.
After hand-delivering the letter to my dad, I don’t know that I have ever seen him so incensed.
At first it was hilarious – I couldn’t believe that I pulled it off!
But as he became angrier and angrier, I started to wonder how I was going to tell him what I had done.
It just so happened that my grandma was flying in to visit us that night. That meant an hour and a half car ride to the airport with no music, only dad berating Housing.
I was struggling to hold in my laughter the whole way there until the ride back consisted of the same anger, relayed to my grandma this time.
My worries solidified and any leftover joy morphed to stress, then regret. I wasn’t made for pranking and I wouldn’t ever dare to pull off another stunt like this again.
After about another hour of mounting fear, I finally came clean.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” my dad said.
A few agonizing seconds of silence passed before we all started laughing.
Ten years later, 116 Eames is occasionally brought up by someone in my family for another good laugh.
But through all the laughter, I always feel a tinge of stress because I can’t help but wonder how funny everyone would find my joke if we would’ve had to move that fence.
-Kayleen Petrovia is a reporter for the Journal-Tribune.