KABOOM

Our senior year continued without incident until our chemistry teacher unwittingly set into motion a chain of events that would prove to be most satisfying to me and two of my compadres.  He introduced the class to sodium, a malleable, silver grey metal that is so volatile in the presence of water that it must be stored in a kerosene medium.  He demonstrated its volatility by dropping a piece about the size of a grain of rice in a beaker of water.  The loud release of an intense amount of heat was immediate and violent. 

My best friend and I were totally impressed and immediately hatched a scheme to borrow enough sodium to conduct our own experiments outside the classroom.  Without giving away trade secrets as to how, we managed to obtain our own piece of sodium about the size of a pencil eraser.  We stored it in an empty pimento jar filled with kerosene.  We recruited a third team member to assist in our search for scientific truth and set off for the Varsity.  The Varsity was closed on Mondays, so we had the parking lot to ourselves.  We half-filled a six ounce CoCola bottle with water, carefully removed the sodium from the pimento jar using a pair of tweezers, and dropped it into the CoCola bottle.  The ensuing explosion was ten times greater than that of a cherry bomb, and a flame of fire shot fifty feet into the air and almost set one of the pecan trees on fire.  Oddly enough, the CoCola bottle survived intact.  The result of our experiment exceeded our wildest expectations.  We feverishly began designing another experiment to advance the cause of science.

We decided to measure the effects of a similar release of energy in a tightly confined space, such as the sewer line buried under the high school.  Sodium would be too unstable to use as the explosive, so I donated my last cherry bomb I had been rat-holing ever since they were made illegal by our weak-kneed legislature.  We decided the explosive would be delivered to the point of detonation in the sewer line by flushing it down a commode.

We designed a set of projected outcomes.  I predicted the force of the released energy would hardly be noticed, due to the water in the bowl of the commode.  A small bumping sound might be heard. We computed that the energy released from the cherry bomb would dissipate itself along the long axis of the sewer pipe at a rate inversely proportional to the diameter of the pipe and the distance from ground zero, and would cause little, if any, damage.

We scheduled the experiment for right after lunch and right before chemistry class.  We left lunch early so we could conduct our experiment without being disturbed by a teacher who might not understand the significance of our grand undertaking.  One member of our scientific team was stationed in the door to the chemistry lab to warn the public in the event of an accident and to keep watch for the other part of the scientific team gathered at ground zero. 

My partner and I selected the commode closest to the bathroom door and I dropped my lit cherry bomb in the bowl filled with water and flushed.  The commode completed its flushing cycle and was beginning to refill with water, when up popped the fizzing cherry bomb, floating on top of the water.  This possibility never occurred to us, and subsequently was not included in our contingency planning.  There was no way I was going to reach down into the bowl of that toilet and pluck out a cherry bomb with less than an eighth of an inch left to burn on the lit fuse.  Besides, who knew where the water in the toilet bowl had been?  We did the only thing responsible research scientists could do.  We hauled-ass out of the bathroom; he ran down the stairs to the rear of the school and I flew into the chemistry lab across the hall without being seen and immediately began an intense inspection of the Periodic Table of the Elements. 

The physics of what happened next are complex.  The cherry bomb exploded in the bowl of the commode with such force that it sounded like a thunderclap.  The confined space caused the energy to dissipate itself against the front and rear of the commode.  The commode was blown in half and ripped free from its plumbing.  Water began to pour out of the broken water supply line and flooded the bathroom and part of the hallway. 

Generally speaking, the experiment, although it hadn’t followed protocol, was, in our opinion, a tremendous success.  It also caused a humongous uproar in the high school.  The principal and faculty promised a swift identification, capture, and execution of the perpetrators.  Students were questioned without Miranda warnings or any consideration for their constitutional rights.  Our scientific research team was immediately identified as the prime suspects. 

THE INQUISITION

The three of us were separated from each other and grilled, mercilessly, over and over.  We maintained we didn’t see anything but did hear what sounded like two girls running down the hall, giggling hysterically, right after the blast heard round the high school.  That information was greeted somewhat skeptically and it was immediately identified as the red herring it was. 

We were told, over and over, “We know all of you who did this terrible thing.  Confess and tell us the others who were involved and we will let you off Scot free.” 

That didn’t sound like too good a deal to me.  I was already off Scot free without being a double-crossing rat.  Besides, if they knew who did it, why did they need me to confess and roll over on my fellow research scientists?  And to exactly what was I supposed to confess?  Having a natural curiosity about the big-bang theory? Being saddled with the common sense and the judgment of a seventeen year old? At this point confession did not appear to be in the best interests of my soul.  I arrived at that conclusion without having a lawyer whisper in my ear.

All of the male students were herded into the auditorium.  The principal told us no one could leave until the guilty parties owned up to the dastardly deed.  Index cards were passed around with the instructions that if you were one of the guilty parties you should write on the card, “I did it,” and sign your name.  Did we look like a group of complete buffoons?  Yeah, right.  We were insulted. 

Finally, my conscience and my Southern Baptist upbringing got the best of me, and, suffering from genuine remorse and tremendous guilt, I decided to come clean and identify myself as one of the commode bombers.  I wrote the absolute truth on my index card, “I am sitting between the other two guys who did it.”  Well, it was the truth, wasn’t it?  I left the card unsigned.  We turned the cards in and they were read by the principal and some of the male teachers.  When they reached my card they held it up in the air and insisted the person who wrote the card immediately stand up and identify himself, and his two accomplices.  It was all we could do to keep from busting a gut laughing.  How stupid were they?  They seemed to be surprised that no signed confessions were forthcoming, although they received over forty cards that said, “I did it.  Ha-Ha.” 

The index card process was repeated two more times, with the responses getting more ludicrous with each session.  Finally, after three hours of foolishness, we were sent home with the admonition to pray that the commode bombers would turn themselves in.  A couple of perpetual jerks slyly hinted that they were involved and tried to take credit for the act, but they had no credibility and were quickly looked upon with derision and scorn by everyone.  The principal finally gave up the chase after a few days and things pretty much returned to normal. 

The Story Page