In 1959, Bob Kelly was one of my best buddies from High School.  Most of us went from Van Nuys High in the valley, over the hill to UCLA.  However, Bob opted for the University of Oregon.  During the first few months of our freshman semester, Bob writes me letters about the girls he's dating and how 'fun' they've been...  Which sorority has the prettiest - and ugliest girls...  Who got drunk and barfed all over what...  In several of the letters he briefly mentions a coed at Oregon who is also from one of our neighboring high schools here in the San Fernando Valley.  Apparently, Charlene had quite a rep and in high school was endearingly referred to as, “The Girl Most Likely To Go Far.”

Bob goes on to say that Charlene will be home for Christmas vacation and he will try to arrange all of us to experience a little “Get-together.”  He adds it’s not a sure thing because her father, a retired Marine, is also aware of his daughter’s permissive proclivities and she might not be able to sneak out of the house.

Christmas break arrives, and I've forgotten about the whole thing.  One night I’m at home trying to study when Bob calls.  He excitedly announces that Charlene has sneaked out of the house and has agreed to meet us in Franklin Canyon, a wooded, secluded area not too far from my parent’s house.  They will come by in fifteen minutes to pick me up.   Um... Wow!  I'm ready to see if Charlene looks anything like the mental picture I've been building.

I would venture that about now your estimation of this author’s moral character is questionable.  What was I thinking?  I remember exactly what I was thinking.  No way was I going to be an active participant in whatever they'd planned.

No, really! I am a well brought up kid with a strong moral core who, remember, was one of the good guys.  Besides, I’ve always had trouble peeing in public bathrooms much less whipping it out in front of my buddies. (Don’t ask me to explain why I had no problem sticking my bare ass out a car window.)
I'm going along because I am curious; it's an adventure with my friends, I can't believe they're actually going to do this, and most important, it's an excuse not to study.

When Bob, Bill and Zeke come by to pick me up in Bill's car, I find the atmosphere somewhat tense, so I try to loosen things up, “Hey, anybody bring some mistletoe?”  Nobody laughs.

The four of us are good friends and will remain so for the next fifty years.  Bill will become the co founder of a very successful tech company in Silicon Valley, and has made more money than all of us combined.  But, Bill was and still is a cheap SOB.  Back then he had an immaculate, metallic blue, 1952 Chevy Bel Air coupe which he treated like a first date.  He even refused to drive over fifty miles an hour because of the perceived wear on her tires and brakes.  We used to make him crazy by pretending to bump into the car with ourselves or various objects like beer can openers, car keys, (ice cream cones were always good), even playing catch with the football over the car between us.  To this day, whenever the opportunity presents, we do the same thing with his $70,000 Porsche Cayenne.

Anyway, ten minutes later we’re slowly bumping down a dark, narrow dirt road into Franklin Canyon.  Now that we’re here I’m having second thoughts, but it’s too late because about fifty yards ahead we can make out a car parked by the side of the road.  Bob says “There she is! That’s her car!”  We go past and stop about 50 feet down the road.

So, now we’re all walking back towards the car.  When we get about 40 feet away, the driver’s door suddenly opens, a man steps out and yells some near hysterical stuff about us messing with his daughter.  It also looks like he’s holding a large stick or maybe a baseball bat.

Bob shouts, “It’s her old man, RUN!”

Good idea.

There is no mistaking the sound of a shotgun.  A rifle or pistol shot might be mistaken for a firecracker, a car backfire, even a balloon popping.  A shotgun blast is like a fart.  Both have a distinctive sound, always get your attention, and can inflict considerable damage with a near miss.

Bob, running next to me, screams and falls.  My God, my best friend is shot and he’s dead or dying!  I’ve got to do something!  However, that thought is extinguished by an immediate second thought reminding me to Not Be Like Bob.

Soldiers claim that when the shooting starts, everything seems to slow down.  This is the closest I’ve ever come to combat (except for my marriage) and that’s what happens.  Bill and Zeke are running alongside me and both of them jump back into Bill’s car, the overhead light coming on, making them perfect targets.   No way am I doing that because if the shooter is chasing us, that will be my metallic blue coffin.  I’m scared, but not panicked.  I’m fully aware of the situation we're in, realizing that there is a full moon out and I am silhouetted against it.  I can keep running, but I haven’t dared look back to see where Mr. Shotgun is.  I can try to hide in the bushes, but if he’s determined, he can find me and flush me.  The only thing I can think of is to put something solid between me and him, then check out what’s going on.  So, I run to the front of Bill’s car, duck and peek over the hood.   Before I can get a good look, I hear another shotgun blast.

But almost immediately, Bill starts the car and speeds up up the road, leaving me no choice but to jump onto to the front bumper and cling to the hood ornament.  About halfway up, Bill stops and I can’t see anyone following us, so I jump off and duck inside the car.  Mulholland Drive is only a minute away and there’s a fire station up there. We can get help!

When we reach the top, I start to get out of the car, but Zeke, a big, all-league basketball player, yanks me back inside.  Both Bill and Zeke appear terrified, barely coherent, now babbling about how we can’t go to the authorities, we might get in trouble because of the planned 'activity'.

Huh?

But Zeke won’t let me out of the back seat!  It is clear I am the only one thinking and these guys are panicked.  I’m furious!  How can they abandon our buddy back there?  Bill mumbles something about heading back to my house and we’ll figure out what to do then.  Jesus!  Okay, okay, that’s only a few minutes away; anything to get me out of the car!

And then I get an idea.  At nineteen, an idea is frequently not a good thing.

Now I assume, Dear Reader, that you are a law-abiding member of a civilized society.  However, at this moment I am not.  My society has just become extremely uncivilized and I am a very angry teenager, righteously furious and offended that someone has just shot my friend.

So, the plan is to go home, grab my 22 rifle, then go back up there and shoot it out with this guy.  And, as I write this, I really can’t remember if calling the police was in the mix.  All I’m thinking is, I hope this asshole is still there when I get back with my gun.

In retrospect, I now know where this insane idea came from.  It came from fifteen years of growing up watching John Wayne and World War Two movies.

I now notice that Bill is even driving slower than normal and going down unnecessary side streets.

I comment on this:  “What the hell are you doing!?  Move!  Move!”

Bill mutters something about how he’s afraid the guy might be following us and he’s trying to lose him.  I’m not buying it, but I figure these guys are just brain locked with panic.

We finally pull into the driveway of my house and I bolt from the car.  Tearing open the back door, I race though the kitchen, laundry room and den where Bob Kelly is sitting watching television - and continue running though the living room and into my bedroom.

I actually have the rifle in my hand when it finally occurs to me that I just saw Bob Kelly in the den watching Steve Allen.

Then it hits me. I’ve been had!

As I walk back to the grinning faces of Bill, Zeke, Bob and Tom (the guy with the shotgun), I understand I’ve been suckered; nowadays they call it, “Punked.”

Surprisingly, I’m not angry or embarrassed.  I’m amused and impressed by how they put it all together.  And, I hate to admit it, but I was disappointed I would not get to be John Wayne.

What they pulled on me is called The Turkey Shoot, an elaborate practical joke going around college campuses back then.  They had been setting me up for months, starting with Charlene, the fictitious people pleaser being planted in Bob’s letters.  And, they executed it masterfully.  Bill and Zeke admitted even though they knew it wasn’t real, they had no problem acting scared because they were.  I mean, what happens if I do get out of the car and run to the fire station?  And then there’s Bill driving slowly, taking side streets, claiming he was worried the shooter was following us.  That was to give Bob Kelly and Tom enough time to beat us back to my house.

Yes, the whole thing was mega stupid and full of things that could have gone wrong.  There isn’t anything more dangerous than sex, guns and teenagers.  Well, maybe except for sex, guns and politicians.

The Turkey Shoot has been retold by us many times over the years (Even our own children can’t believe we did something that dumb).  However, when writing this, a question came up that had never occurred to me before.  Of all my friends, why was I picked to be the mark?  Why did they choose me to be the turkey?
I posed this question to all (the now senior citizens) who were involved.  The consensus was that Teddy would be the one most likely to react emotionally, aggressively, and they were sure I wouldn’t panic, collapse, or quit.  Translation: I was the loosest cannon.  Not exactly a testimonial.

The Turkey Shoot made me realize that in stressful situations I can remain calm, think logically (that one is debatable) and I’m not going to give up.  As I’ve said, all these abilities are extremely valuable in dealing with the stress, rapid pace and endemic insecurity of working in the jobs I held for 50 years.

However, with all the things I've seen and done and been over the years, I can’t remember ever wanting to shoot anybody.

Ah, let me think on that a bit.

Ted Bergman