My Diseased Mind

It’s Possible That I’m Beavis

When I was a kid, I really liked fire. Ok, I still do, but as far as the cops are concerned, I never said that. What’s germane to the topic at hand is that I once really liked fire. For the most part, we got along famously.

This all very nearly changed when I was in 7th grade. My sister and I were unsupervised, as usual. Note that I’m not bitter about this; it was an ideal situation for me. Had the internet been readily available to me at that time, I might have learned what a clit was in a more timely manner. Sorry Cathy.

On this day I was experimenting with the innards of a Roman Candle. Salvador was there doing his usual report card victory tour, which involved staying at friends’ houses until his dad was no longer so pissed that he’d beat the hell out of him. He was fortunate enough to witness the lunacy. I had disassembled the Roman Candle and had placed one of its donut-shaped powder charges into a pot. The pot was then covered and placed on a gas stove burner on high. We were sitting at the kitchen table to observe the proceedings from a “safe” distance.

The thing is, nothing happened. After about 15 minutes (ok, 3), we gingerly made our way to the stove and turned it off. Safety first. 10 minutes (ok, 3) of cooling later, we figured it was safe to look. Again we shuffled over to the pot, and very slowly lifted the lid. Have you ever seen Backdraft? It was like that, minus the flames. The air rushed into the pot and ignited the powder. This resulted in a very loud explosion 2 feet from our heads. My hearing was barely saved by the fact that I was staring into the pot. My eyes were saved by the lack of pyrotechnics.

Having been blown back to the table, we shook out the cobwebs and began the cleanup. The pot had a black char mark on the bottom. It had somehow escaped dent-free. In fact, Mom still uses that pot today, and it still has the mark. It was in the sink when Mom walked in, half full of bleach:

Mom: What was that?
Me(dazed): Nothing.
Mom: The big booming noise. In the kitchen.
Me: Didn’t hear it.
Mom: Is it safe to assume that it won’t happen again?
Me: Yep.
Mom: Good.

It turns out that she had been sitting in her boyfriend’s truck in front of the house when the explosion took place. I think she was happier not knowing what I’d done, allowing her the fantasy that I wasn’t a complete dumbass. She knows now.