nobody asked…

Subtitle: My Brief Life As A Teenage Terrorist…

We were not old enough to drive yet — that would come next year. But we were much too old and sophisticated to go Trick or Treating with the little kids. The previous Sunday night we had spent with the youth group from church, going door to door collecting for UNICEF. So we were footloose and free to do whatever the hell we pleased. We were trapped between childhood and manhood in that never-never land of free to be bored silly. Or maybe bored stupid.

All week long Buddy had been coming to my house after school and we had been conducting controlled scientific experiments in the practical application of low-yield explosives — shooting off fireworks. I cannot recall why we had fireworks at Halloween, but that was long before the city fathers learned they could make big bucks by licensing fireworks stands, and city mothers discovered that their little Johnnies and Janies could more gracefully hold their forks and knives at the dinner table before half their fingers were blown away by big-assed Block Buster Bombs.

Buddy and I had split off from the group of guys we hung out with. They had wanted to go to a special Halloween showing of some spook movie that we had all seen before, but Buddy and I decided to find or make our own fun. We both had our pockets stuffed with fireworks, so we proceded to do what any self-respecting high school freshman would do on a night such as this — terrorize the teachers who terrorized us by day. Several of them lived on one of the main streets leading to the Court House Square in the center of town, so it was easy pickin’s. After blasting our way past several teachers’ homes with handfuls of firecrackers, we came to the one we had been anticipating since starting this sortie — Mrs. Hawk’s house.

Every high school had a Mrs. Hawk — heavier of rump than a woman ought to be, prettier in the face than someone of her foul disposition should be, and meaner than a junkyard dog. She taught most of the science courses offered in our little high school, and taught them quite poorly. No one liked her. The good science students disliked her because they literally knew more than she did. The poor students disliked her because they literally knew more than she did. She was the butt of many jokes. This little bombing run promised to be fun.

We assumed strategic positions behind some hedges across the street, safely out of view. Aside from the flickering candle in the requisite front porch jack-o-lantern, there was only one dim light coming from the back of the house. The covered front porch stretched the width of the house and was enclosed on the three open sides by a brick wall about three feet high. Oh, man, if we can lay one up in there, it will echo until November. Double points for whoever takes out the smiling, snaggle-toothed punkin.

Buddy gave it a go first, heaving a cherry bomb toward ground zero. Being short, he had to angle it high to clear the hedges that provided our cover. It hit short of the porch and wiped out an ant colony near the front steps. Being taller than Buddy, I told him to stand back and watch how it is done. Standing behind me, he lit the fuse and I let it rip with every ounce of strength I had. The first thing we heard was glass breaking, followed almost immediately by the devastating, bone-jarring sound of a cherry bomb going off in a living room. You never want to hear that sound. Never.

Somewhere between freeze frame and running like hell in opposite directions, we quickly agreed he would escape to the east while I made my way through the enemy lines to the west. And if we lived to tell about it, we would rendezvous at Court House Square. We got a glimpse of a shattered picture window and a thick billow of smoke seeking exit from the living room, just as every light in that sector of the universe came on. And away we fled into the scary dark cover of night.

Running. Staying in shadows. Running on lawns… less noise than pavement. Listening for sirens. Everything looming large… spooks, ghosts, goblins. Quick glance over shoulder. Scared. Life not s’posed to end like this. Frightened and exhausted. Running. Running some more…

Arriving first at the Square, I found a shadow to lurk in until my heart stopped jack-hammering the inside of my rib cage. And I could … catch my … breath. My mind was racing. Physical exhaustion was quickly yielding to sheer fright, a fear unlike any Halloween I had ever known. Breathlessly… nobody saw us… nobody… could identify us… fingerprints destroyed … fragments … What could they do to us? … Death penalty for throwing cherry bombs through living room windows? Daddy’s gonna kill me. We’ll tell judge how mean Mrs. Hawk was… how badly she taught science. Would Buddy stand with me, or sell me out on a plea bargain? Mama’s gonna kill me. Oh God, why me?

After an eternity of about fifteen minutes, Buddy arrived in a sprint, tongue hanging out, panting like a dog. Seeing me across the Square, he angled my way as I propped against a parking meter, like I didn’t have a care in the world. The picture of cool. Hip. I had had time to calm down, think things through and develop a plan. Buddy pulled up short, tried to steady himself as he sucked in great gulps of air, looking at me in disbelief as I calmly said, “Where you been?” His reply was almost unintelligible through his heaving for air, but I’m pretty certain it was something along the line of “Where have I been? Where the hell have you been? How’d you get here so quick?”

Buddy was in good shape, better than me. After all, he was a jock. Well, sort of. He was the student assistant equipment manager for the football team. After a few minutes, he cooled down. We sauntered around the square a couple of times, practicing our innocent look. After talking it through, we decided that if we both kept our mouths shut and didn’t tell a soul, not even Jimmy or Wendell or Ronnie, then no one would ever know. We made a pact and swore on it. Having been blood brothers since sixth grade when we pricked our fingers with one of Mama’s sewing needles and pressed them together, mixing our blood forever, we knew we could trust each other to death. Or at least until dawn.

As the years have raced by, I’ve lost track of Buddy. I wonder where he is, if he still remembers that night of terror. I wonder if he has ever broken our vow of silence.

I have never spoken of the events of that night. Until now. Those few minutes of stark fright, knowing that life as you know it is about to come to an end, coupled with the guilt feelings that followed, conspired to put an early end to my life of crime and terror. That experience on that Halloween night so many years ago helped shape me into the nondescript, mediocre, boring member of society I am today.