Robert Gloot was very elaborate in his pranks. They would come to him in moments of revelation as if the idea was thrown into his mind by some great prankster deity. Such as the time when, wandering through Camden market looking for the guy who sells bootleg CDs, he came face-to-face with a manikin dressed in a replica of a 19th century highwayman's outfit. He never actually said "Eureka," but his "Christ on a bike on a turtle on a dyke," meant pretty much the same thing.
"That's sweet," he added. He left a very pleased market stall holder and a naked dummy there that day and came back to the flat grinning like the Cheshire Cat that got the Cheshire Mouse.
Two weeks he spent researching and buying mysterious chemicals. Hours he spent mixing and testing and applying them. The results were two large jars of pale green liquid. One he soaked the fake highwayman's costume in and the other he put on the shelf with a selection of brushes. Everything seemed to be ready, but Robert was a perfectionist and something clearly wasn't right.
For the next few weeks he obsessed about the weather. He woke every morning long before dawn but by the time I was up, he was in a mood he would describe as "reflective." "Disappointed" was a better description. Then, one day, he was despondent, the next annoyed and the third I was up before him.
About a week later he came home from work all excited. I recognised that air of imminent prankdom. Something would happen tomorrow. I would do well to get an early night.
At an hour that even God would call ungodly, a firm hand grabbed my shoulder and unceremoniously shook off the peaceful coils of sleep. Robert knelt beside me. I cursed him and he smiled. He'd been cursed before and it would take more than a few choice words to temper his mood.
He was wearing the highwayman outfit. I saw that before I could even be sure it was him. He grabbed me and pulled me from my bed. He cared not for the crusty sleep in my eyes or the fact I was as naked as that poor Camden manikin. I cared and shouted at him to let me dress. Only then did he notice I was undressed and reluctantly gave me leave to address that.
Five minutes later, I joined him in his room. He thrust a large brush in my hand pushed the jar of his pale lime-green concoction towards me. The viscous liquid sloshed as much as its congealing skin would allow.
Robert explained what he wanted, and then re-explained when I ejected a "what?"
Under a tiny halogen bulb I painted his face and hands with a thin layer of the green goo. It was absorbed readily by his pores and the green seemed no match for his ruddy complexion. I prepared for a second coat.
"Nope," he said standing up. It was ready.
When we emerged from the building, it was to a London thick with fog. The kind of fog one seldom sees in London these days despite being synonymous with it. It was what they used to call a pea-souper. There was also a full moon, and this enabled another part of the preparation to become more than apparent. The green goo was just a little fluorescent. Robert, the clothes and the handkerchief he tied around his mouth all glowed in a subtle but decidedly unsettling way. Ghostly was the effect Robert had so studiously been after and ghostly was the effect he'd achieved. I was allowed to follow him only at a safe distance.
For about two hours, Robert roamed the streets of Whitechapel looming slowly out of the mist into people's view. Some stared in disbelief, a few screamed; many hurried away. One tramp asked for some change.
In all, one tramp aside, it was a complete success given the few people that were about at that time of day. By 7:30 the fog had mostly lifted and we were back in the flat laughing as Robert explained the bits I'd not been able to see.
It's not often that conditions are just right for this particular prank, maybe once or twice a year. Maybe less. But when they are, for a short window, Robert is out on the street surprising and scaring Londoners with ingenuity and class, the way God put him on this Earth to do.
[760 words; 7/2/10]