I have a confession to make. It’s not exactly something I’m proud of, but it’s a moment I still reflect on with a mix of amusement and regret. At the time, though, it felt like a stroke of rebellious genius.
Let’s rewind to 1978—or at least that’s my best guess. My buddies and I were out, as we often were on a Friday or Saturday night, doing what experts might call “highly advanced girl-chasing” while sipping on a few frosty beverages. As the clock ticked closer to midnight, the magic of the evening had fizzled out. Not a single one of us had managed to charm a date for the night. So, there we were, parked at the Dairy Mart, surrounded by the aroma of regret and French fries, brainstorming what to do next.
That’s when someone—I can’t remember who, but probably the instigator of most bad ideas—blurted out, “Hey, let’s put the picnic tables on the roof of the Dip!” The words hung in the air for a moment, daring us to consider their absurdity. We all paused, glancing around to gauge each other’s reactions. Was this brilliant? Dangerous? Completely stupid? The answer didn’t matter. What mattered was the spark of possibility it ignited. “Why not?” someone else chimed in, and suddenly the idea took on a life of its own, morphing from a ridiculous suggestion to an irresistible challenge.
Let me paint a picture for you: back in those days, the Dairy Dip boasted three large, robust, wooden picnic tables stationed proudly on the side, like steadfast guardians of our mischief-filled nights. Unlike today, they weren’t bolted down, free to be moved, manipulated, or—in our case—misappropriated by the whims of restless youth.
Fueled by youthful stupidity and a distinct lack of common sense, we backed the truck up to the tables. Two of us scrambled onto the roof with the grace of amateur acrobats, while the other two stayed below, flexing their muscles and trying to act like professional movers.
The operation ran smoother than a heist in an action movie. The ground crew lifted a table onto the truck bed, hopped up in it, and handed the table up to us the roof crew. In less than five glorious, adrenaline-pumping minutes, all three tables were perched triumphantly on the roof like they’d always belonged there.
To this day, I can’t help but wonder what Boss Hampton thought when he rolled up the next morning, coffee in hand, only to find his picnic tables defying gravity. Did he laugh? Did he curse? Did he silently vow to bolt everything down in the future? Who knows?
Every couple of months, I stop by the Dairy Mart for a hamburger. If it’s a nice day, I sit at one of the picnic tables, always noticing how firmly they’re bolted into the ground and can’t help but think about that night. Thank God there were no video cameras back then to capture our shenanigans. These days, I’ve retired from the rooftop table relocation business and settled into a life of calm respectability. My buddies and I stick to less questionable pursuits now, like complaining about back pain and remembering the good old days.