The Great Sugar Daddy Caper

An East Bay story of mischief, delayed justice, and one boy’s fight to survive himself.

Halloween season, 1981.

None of us knew why the library was closed.

One thing we knew for certain.

The library had Sugar Daddies.

Every kid at Blacow understood the arrangement. Check out a book, receive a Sugar Daddy. Knowledge enjoyed strong institutional support.

That morning, Carl came back from the bathroom wearing a grin that told me an adventure had just been handed to us.

He leaned toward me.

“The library window is open.”

I looked at him.

Dean Beaupre looked at him.

Mrs. Flores launched her famous “Shhhhhhh!” across the room.

Carl sat back with the confidence of a kid who had completed half a plan and considered the remaining half an administrative detail.

The library sat dark and empty.

No teachers.

No librarian.

No students.

One open window.

And somewhere inside, Sugar Daddies.

Rain pushed us beneath the covered walkways during recess. Shoes squeaked on the wet concrete. Jackets dripped. Teachers watched from the doorways for running, fighting, shoving, screaming, and the usual proof that kids had been turned loose.

Carl explained the opportunity.

Adventure, risk, mischief, and candy had aligned.

Boys like us couldn’t ignore that kind of invitation.

We would go in before lunch, take enough Sugar Daddies to satisfy the danger, and get out fast.

Dean looked nervous.

I studied the library.

Twenty.

That was my number.

Twenty Sugar Daddies felt ambitious, achievable, and worthy of the risk.

After all, a boy needs standards.

We waited until the hallway cleared. Carl went first. Dean followed. I climbed through the window last and landed inside the library with my heart pounding hard enough to remind me that what we were doing carried consequences.

The room had changed without adults in it. Shelves stood in dark rows. Books waited in silence. Rain tapped against the windows and pavement outside.

The air held paper, dust, old carpet, and a misdemeanor in progress.

We moved fast.

Carl found the candy.

Of course he did.

Dean started grabbing.

I counted.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

By ten, I felt successful.

By fifteen, I felt gifted.

At twenty, I had achieved new status.

That should have ended the caper.

Take the candy. Leave the library. Blend in with the lunch crowd.

Carl started looking around.

That was my cue to leave.

Success makes certain boys curious. Curiosity finds shelves, cabinets, drawers, locked doors, and fresh ways to ruin a perfectly good escape.

“Come on,” Dean demanded.

Carl kept moving.

Dean’s nervousness turned into sheer panic.

I climbed out.

Then the lunch bell rang.

The sound tore through the quiet.

Dean came through the window next.

Carl followed, carrying more ambition than speed.

Campy, our janitor, caught him.

I saw it happen from the far end of the walkway. Campy stood in the rain, one hand near Carl’s shoulder and the other holding a brown grocery bag.

Carl had been caught.

Go figure.

Dean froze.

I began walking with speed.

Once again, in the middle of a hellstorm of stupidity, living legally started to sound good to me.

Friendship had reached its practical limit.

My twenty Sugar Daddies suddenly felt heavy. I needed a place with no teachers, students, windows, or witnesses.

Part of the building had a low roof.

I looked around.

Clear.

I threw the candy onto it. One by one at first, then several at a time.

Twenty Sugar Daddies disappeared from sight.

Evidence gone.

Problem solved.

At lunch, I sat with friends and carried myself as a boy with no connection to any library, open window, missing candy, or criminal enterprise operating during recess.

We discussed boxing practice, my newspaper route, and money. These were subjects I understood. They made me feel independent. Grown. Safe.

Then I saw Mr. Melendez.

Carl stood beside him.

Dean stood beside Carl.

Carl pointed at me.

Mr. Melendez pointed too, and his finger carried authority.

Mr. Melendez had served as an Army officer.

That was easy to believe.

I stood and walked over.

“Hi, Mr. Melendez.”

“Come with me.”

I knew the drill.

We headed toward the office.

Off to hell we went.

Campy was already inside. The soggy brown grocery bag sat beside him, filled with Sugar Daddies.

Carl looked pale.

Understandable.

Dean looked worse.

Also understandable.

Mr. Melendez stood in front of his desk and began asking questions.

Carl talked.

Too much.

Dean agreed.

What a fooligan.

Both placed me inside the library.

Neither had proof.

I listened carefully.

Then Mr. Melendez turned to me.

“Where’s the candy, Bryan-David?”

I looked him directly in the eye.

“I don’t know what they’re talking about. You saw me. I was in the cafeteria.”

Carl stared at me, dismayed.

Dean’s face collapsed.

I suggested that Carl might be angry because his caper had failed and, for reasons entirely unknown to me, had decided to drag me into his trouble. I had been nowhere near the library. I was an innocent boy facing a coordinated accusation from unstable associates.

Truth had left the building.

Confidence remained strong.

Right there, I realized the prayer running through my head would probably never touch heaven.

Mr. Melendez brought out the paddle.

Hell Fire.

That was its name.

Carl’s face changed.

Dean’s changed faster.

That paddle carried its own weather.

Always hot.

Carl went first.

Nothing exciting there.

He winced. A few tears fell.

It was his 903rd time.

Ish.

Dean was next.

Dean had never been paddled.

Things were getting interesting.

Sorry, but that was entertainment I was ready for.

The boy was sweating profusely. He had spent enough time around members of the Hell Fire Club to understand how the paddle earned its name.

The first whack took the breath out of him.

Dean jumped onto Mr. Melendez’s desk and pressed his backside against the wall. His eyes widened until very little of Dean remained except fear.

Mr. Melendez reached toward him.

“Come on, Dean. Don’t make this worse. Two more. Let’s get it done.”

“Two?!”

I thought he was going to faint.

Terror ran wild across his face.

I could already see the headline in The Argus.

Fremont Boy Dies. Stopped Breathing Suddenly.

Mr. Melendez gave him a choice. He could take the remaining two or start over with three.

Dean understood mathematics under that kind of pressure.

He climbed down and hollered through the final two.

Carl and Dean sat with their backsides burning and their eyes fixed on me.

Their anger had merit.

Mr. Melendez walked us to class. He told me to wait outside while he searched my desk.

I agreed immediately.

My desk contained pencils, papers, books, and no evidence.

Carl and Dean waited nearby, obvious hope on their faces.

Mr. Melendez came back.

My desk was clean.

He looked at me.

“You can go.”

Life was good.

Carl and Dean avoided me.

For days.

Weeks passed.

Then more weeks.

For two months, I carried the confidence of a boy who had outsmarted them all, escaped Hell Fire, and left my associates to absorb the full cost of justice.

Then I was called to the office.

I thought Mama had arrived. Maybe I had an appointment.

Campy sat inside when I entered.

Beside him sat twenty Sugar Daddies.

My eyes went wide. My mouth went dry. My palms started sweating.

The Hell Fire Club was about to hold an unplanned and unwelcome meeting.

My candy had spent two months on the roof enduring rain, wind, cold mornings, warm afternoons, and my growing confidence in my own brilliance.

Mr. Melendez entered and closed the door.

He looked at the candy.

He looked at me.

He rolled his eyes and released a quiet chuckle.

Then he got down to business.

Campy had gone onto the roof to change belts on some equipment. There, spread across the surface in various stages of weather damage, sat the evidence of the Great Sugar Daddy Caper.

Campy didn’t smile.

His disappointment made my heart sink.

Mr. Melendez cleared his desk.

Then he brought out Hell Fire.

Discipline at Blacow operated on a scale of one to three swats. By fourth grade, I had learned to hate the number three.

The first pop lit the fire and stole my breath.

The second established the full geography of the pain.

The third made me believe an undertaker might be required.

Then came the leather sofa.

It sat in Mr. Melendez’s office waiting for boys whose lessons required time to settle.

I lowered myself carefully.

My backside disappeared into a storm of sting, burn, throb, and one relentless question.

God, why am I so stupid?

Campy gathered his tools.

Mr. Melendez returned to his work.

Justice had completed its rounds.

Later, I found Carl and Dean on the basketball court.

They looked at me.

I looked at them.

No words were needed.

My face told them the story had come full circle.

Their satisfaction traveled across the blacktop and settled directly on me.

A smart boy can outrun consequences.

For a while.

He cannot outrun a kind janitor performing maintenance on a roof.

Campy returned to sweeping floors, repairing broken things, pumping up basketballs, and helping kids through ordinary school days. He whistled while he worked and sang the same line he always sang.

“Ever day’s a holiday ... ever day’s a holiday ...”

That afternoon, the holiday belonged to Carl and Dean.

They had waited two very long months.

 

And that, right there, is hard East Bay truth.

©2026 Bryan-David Scott. All rights reserved.

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