Sleepover in the garage attic

Your makeshift crib is totally out of sight!

Those were the words spoken by my boon companions — Robert “Robbie” Brough and Robert “Mags” Magnifico — when they climbed the painter’s ladder into the newly christened garage attic hideout.

From a fully furnished living space complete with all the usual trappings — a very comfy sofa, two matching chairs, a coffee table and three mismatched end tables with attached lamps — it also had a small corner kitchenette featuring a miniature refrigerator, hotplate, and a set of base cabinets for snacks next to my original writing desk, which was purchased with monetary gifts following an orthopedic leg surgery in third grade.

Beyond the quaint living area at the back end of the elevated fortress, there was a sizable space with three fully inflated swimming pool rafts on which to lay our sleeping bags and pillows to drift off into dreamland.

To complete the would-be apartment, the solid plywood floor was covered in charcoal black heavy-duty indoor-outdoor carpet with rubber marine backing and royal blue paint splashed on all four walls that featured the Ellwood City Wolverines mascot in semi-gloss white as the backdrop of the sleeping quarters.

The only thing you’re missing is a bathroom.

“I’ve got that covered,” I revealed with a great deal of satisfaction while divulging the details of our improvised bathroom facilities for the epic sleepover. “If anyone has to take a leak during the night, they can go on the other end of the two-car garage next to the woodpile; and there’s a roll of toilet paper and a painter’s bucket with a plastic bag liner for squeezing a loaf next to the work bench downstairs.”

Just make sure to tie up the plastic bag and deposit it in the burn barrel outside when you’re finished.

Gadzooks!

You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you.

That’s what we did when a pair of stepbrothers — Dirk Arkwright and Allan McLaughlin — from my church, who helped build this private clubhouse for me, spent the night once it was finished the weekend before school started.

However, they weren’t too keen on putting a stencil of the Lincoln High School mascot on the wall since they live on the opposite side of the county line — Riverside territory.

So, how’d you get the furniture through the trap door in the floor?

Upon opening a barn door to what was left of our summer vegetable garden, the astonished gridiron ballers both dropped their jaws at the surprise revelation.

After attending my big brother John’s rescheduled junior high school football game earlier that same evening with three generations of the Price family, the two Robs — also part of the same athletic team — came home with me to spend the night in the coveted piece of real estate which I had been incessantly talking about since the beginning of the school year.

Following a decadent bedtime snack — a leftover piece of my paternal grandmother’s 65th birthday cake — at the dining room table, we each grabbed our bedrolls and pillows sitting in the entryway prior to traipsing down the sidewalk between the church parsonage and the cinderblock outbuilding to take part in a once-in-a-lifetime event.

Immediately after laying out our temporary beds on top of the comfortable inflatable water rafts in the dimmest section of the secluded retreat, we decided to play Hasbro’s Clue — a murder mystery board game — from a variety of games sitting on a small bookcase next to my writing desk; whereupon we set it up on the coffee table between the small sofa and lounge chairs.

I call dibs on Professor Plum!

“Duly noted, my young apprentice,” responded Robbie, sporting a wide grin as he clearly channeled Obi-Wan Kenobi from Star Wars: A New Hope. Since you’re going to be the esteemed college professor, I’m going to be the highly revered Colonel Mustard; and Mags can be the elusive Mr. Green, who attracts all the ladies.”

The football bruisers shouted out three cheers for me after snatching a few bottles of ice-cold Coca-Cola from the mini fridge and breaking out some late-night snacks — peanuts, pretzels and potato chips — from the nearby kitchen cabinet.

Hip, Hip, Hooray!

Once this trio of would-be detectives were enjoying a little light-hearted conversation mixed with some very satisfying refreshments, they began using their sleuthing skills to piece together the various clues — the who, the what and the where — for the treacherous murder mystery which took place inside the walls of England’s infamous Tudor Mansion.

Outside, a sudden gust of wind tossed a broken tree branch from the backyard maple against the roof of the oversized garage, causing all of us to nearly jump out of our skin.

“Jeepers creepers,” I exclaimed with eyes as big as saucers after quickly picking myself up off the floor next to the coffee table. “When that tree branch slammed against the roof, I thought it was the ‘Clue’ killer trying to climb up through the trap door; so, I was about to jump out the barn door into the remnants of our vegetable garden.”

You wouldn’t have gotten very far with that face-plant into the carpet.

Elementary, my dear Watson!

With all this excitement, I think we’re due for a potty break.

While draining the dragon by the woodpile, I questioned the whereabouts of our fair-skinned redheaded companion.

His coffee must’ve kicked in.

What?

He had to make a deposit in your makeshift porcelain bank.

When the black-haired Italian and I peered into the darkened cinderblock garage through a double-pane glass window, the young man in question was carefully wiping his hindquarters to avoid getting any dookie residue on his delicate fingertips.

We nearly busted a gut when he brought the gently used, tied-off plastic bag out to the burn barrel.

As everyone played follow-the-leader back up the painter’s ladder, a very important reminder was relayed to our constipated confidant bringing up the rear.

“A word to the wise,” teased the youngest son of the police chief with a hint of laughter in his voice when glancing over his shoulder at tail-end Charlie. “As a courtesy, you might want to consider relining the painter’s bucket with a new plastic bag in the event someone else needs to give birth to a brick before the night is through.”