Destroying Something Beautiful

A semi-autobiographical account of combating boredom and unexpected chaos. ***Warning*** Includes strong language and youthful stupidity. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

“We need to destroy something beautiful.”

Jon flicked the ash off the end of his unfiltered Lucky Strike and took another drag. I was lounging under one of the old crabapple trees by what used to be the sheep pens at Chris and Pam’s farm. Jerry was leaning against the tree I was sprawled under, his eyes following the domesticated deer in the nearby pens. He looked over at Jon, then at me, and then he grinned, and said nonchalantly:

“I’ve got a blasting cap.”

Jon’s head swiveled in Jerry’s direction. He flicked his smoke again and spat.

“You f*****g serious?”

“Yeah. Got it upstairs in a drawer.”

“Where did you get a blasting cap?” I asked. I was curious, and if I were honest, a little jealous. Jerry didn’t exactly fit the profile for a Unabomber wannabe, so I was genuinely intrigued.

“You remember Ricky?” Jerry replied.

“Batshit-crazy Ricky Hollenbach?” I said. “The kid who got third degree burns on his hands in middle school playing with a run-over Bic he found on the side of the road? The kid that used to stick sewing pins through his thumb in Sunday School just to prove he could? The kid who once tried to ramp his bike over a pit full of broken glass because we bet he wouldn’t?”

“That’s the kid.”

Jerry folded his arms and and looked just a little smug. He was obviously enjoying one-upping the both of us today.

“Ricky gave me a blasting cap once to hold on to,” he continued. “I don’t remember when, but I’ve got it in a drawer upstairs.”

“Gentleman...I know what we are doing today,” Jon announced, finishing his smoke and crushing it out on the gravel. “We are going to destroy something beautiful. And we will be using that blasting cap.”

Jon gestured grandiosely to Jerry.

“Lead on, good sir.”

We trooped up the red wooden staircase to the back porch of the house. We exchanged greetings with Jerry’s mom as we trudged through kitchen, and waves with Chris as we entered the living room. Chris was a man of few words, and especially few words when the Phillies game was on. Up the brown carpeted staircase we went, making a sharp right at the top into Jerry’s bedroom. The roof on the right sloped sharply down to the front of the house, giving it a cozy, attic-like feel minus the creepy spiderweb ambiance of most old attic rooms. The window on the far side of the room overlooked the fir trees and the old sandbox we used to play in as kids. I’m positive if you excavated it today, you’d find at least a ragged platoon or two of old green plastic army men still missing-in-action.

Jerry went over to the old writing desk by the window and pulled out a drawer. He shuffled through some old floppy disks, some Super Nintendo/N64 game booklets, and numerous burned CDs. Finally, he brought out the blasting cap.

“Voila.”

It was an unimpressive little thing, all copper and rainbow anodized metal with two wires leading out of the one end.

“F****n’-A, man…” Jon breathed. He examined the faded printing on the side closely. “Yep. It’s the real deal.”

“How do we know it works?” I asked. A quiet but insistent voice in the back of my mind was starting to scratch at the back door of my conscience and common sense, but I couldn’t quite make out what it was trying to tell me.

“Only one way to find out.”

Jon tucked the cap into the front pocket of his jeans.

“Does Chris keep any black powder around here by any chance?” he asked Jerry. An unmistakable grin began to twist the corners of Jon’s mouth. I knew that grin, and I did not like it. That scratching sound at the back of my brain got louder.

“Uh...no. No, I don’t think so,” Jerry said, hesitation starting to creep into his voice. He seemed a lot less adventurous now that a plan was taking shape.

“No problem,” Jon replied, the grin widening. “I know where we can get some.”

He put his aviator shades on, and took his car keys out of his pocket.

“I have a plan. Let’s roll, boys...”

Jerry and I exchanged a look as we made our way down the stairs. I think we were both thinking the same thing: This is NOT going to end well, but I kinda want to see how far it all goes.

Why didn’t we say anything aloud? Why didn’t we express our concerns there and then?

The main reason was this: we were 19 years old, it was Saturday, and we didn’t have s**t to do.  Looking back now, I think drinking and smoking might have been far safer alternatives. Of course, we didn’t know then what we would know by the end of the day either: when Jon said he had a plan, that did not mean it was a GOOD plan.

Outside, Jon unlocked the doors of his pride and joy: a 1984 Dodge Omni. Dodge had built the Omni to compete with compact imports like the VW Rabbit that had a stranglehold on the car market in the 80s. Naturally, this meant it looked almost exactly like a VW Rabbit with just enough differences to avoid a lawsuit.  Jon had purchased the Omni with part of his USMC signing bonus. It was festooned with Eagle, Globe, and Anchor reglia, and a USMC camo flag completed the devil-dog-and-proud ensemble.

After boot camp at Parris Island and MIT out in California, Jon had returned home full of piss and vinegar. He was hellbound and determined to shake off the chains of his strict religious upbringing. At the time, we were 100% behind him on that, but honestly I think a lot of that was wanting to see how far he would go, and possibly avoid any major pitfalls ourselves. I’ve always been a big believer in avoiding mistakes by making them vicariously through others. Call me an a*****e, but it does make a sick kind of sense when you think about it, so long as you don’t think about it too much. Besides, I think Jon liked being our pointman anyway.

“Shotgun!” I called, and  slid into the passenger’s seat. Jerry seated himself behind the driver. He never preferred to sit up front anyway on car rides. Jon popped the car into reverse and made a big show of backing up the long gravel drive, a lit cigarette already hanging from his lips and an arm stretched out across the back of the passenger seat as he looked out the back windshield. We made it out of the driveway, and Jon popped the car into first, making the tires squeal a bit. The Omni was a four speed automatic with overdrive, but Jon always drove it like it was a stick. More on that later.

Once we were on a straightaway on the back roads, I shook out an American Spirit from the pack I had left in Jon’s car and flicked my lighter, drawing the flame into the end of the cigarette and making it glow. I was more of a social smoker in those days, and it went well with the image of the idealistic rebel I saw myself as in my head. I took a drag, and held the butt out the window briefly to take the ash off. I’m glad I quit smoking cigarettes these many years later, and I would never smoke in a car I owned now, but there is a certain magic about riding in a car with no air conditioning in the summer time down country roads and having a smoke. I held the pack out to Jerry, but he held up a hand and shook his head. Jerry was with us, but there were some vices of ours he never picked up.

As we sped along towards an unknown destination, Jon outlined his plan, which I must admit I only remember hazily to this day. I’m fairly certain it involved a large quantity of black powder for antique firearms, a medicine bottle, copper wire, and a cheap battery-powered  alarm timer. I remember thinking that the plan made perfect sense at the time, and believing Jon’s assertion that absolutely nothing could go wrong. I also seem to remember Jerry and Jon discussing a certain tree stump way back in the woods on his parents’ land. Anyway, the point is, we had a plan and a target, and nothing better to do. We made it as far as Old 22 in New Smithville when Jon’s recklessness won out over his dumb luck.

Old Route 22 is a long stretch of back country road through farmland. It had been replaced by a super highway at some point in the 1980s, which was called Route 22/US 78. Pennsylvania is big on combining highways. We had hit the long stretch of Old 22, passing through a little town called New Smithville on our way to Fogelsville. We were cruising along, the stereo blasting 95.1 WZZO at full volume (the radio actually played music back in those days), and singing at the top of our lungs. It was an unconscious tribute to that scene in Garth’s AMC Gremlin from Wayne’s World, but at least 45% dorkier. Little did we know our mellow was about to be badly harshed.

A matte-grey Chevy S-10 came barreling up behind us, laying on the horn. It was chopped and dropped with blacked out headlights and taillights. The trio of rednecks in their neanderthal-virgins-for-life-mobile were waving and hollering like adolescent gorillas; two rode up front and one was hanging on for dear life in the bed. Now, I may not have had room to talk that day given our current endeavor for a Saturday afternoon, but those b******s were destroying the beauty of our lazy afternoon. Un-f*****g-acceptable.

“That how you wanna play, fuckstick?” Jon growled, giving them the finger. Jerry was crouched in the back attempting to make himself invisible. I extended a one finger salute out the passenger side window to give them my regards.

“Those guys are the reason cousins shouldn’t marry,” I said. Jerry laughed. Jon responded by gunning the engine. The Omni tried to respond, but it was already straining as it was.  There was also a sharp left curve that was fast approaching.

“Turn coming up,” I said. That insistent scratching at the back of my conscience was now trying to break the door down.

“Yep,” Jon said tightly. The S-10 hadn’t given any ground. The apes in the pickup had not let up their taunting. About 300 yards before the turn, their driver put the hammer down and they blew past us, the passenger in the back giving us a two fisted farewell salute. It was as we rounded that turn that we discovered we had a serious problem.

Going into the turn, it was clear that we were going too fast, especially when the passenger side front wheel got into the gravel at the side of the road. The speed wasn’t entirely the problem though: there was an overpass bridge arching over Old 22 with concrete abutments on either side. Even as we drifted around the turn, I could see we were about to get up close and personal with the bridge abutment on my side of the car. Jon had hit the brakes, but they were not doing much good since half of the cars wheels were rolling on gravel and had no traction anyway. He downshifted hard, and the engine screamed in protest. We were still going entirely too fast.

“Wall. Wall, Jon.” I said, my voice flat. I don’t know why I was so calm. I was fairly certain we were going to die or be badly injured, but I don’t think my brain had caught up to that fact yet.

“Yup,” Jon said. His eyes were narrowed and his jaw tight with concentration.

He swung the wheel hard left, bringing us off the gravel and pointing the nose away from the bridge, but we were still drifting with no traction. Jon yanked up the emergency brake and downshifted again hard, actually ripping the shifter out of the gearbox. The car slammed into the metal guardrail on the other side of the road at about 45 miles per hour. Metal shrieked against metal as the car tore itself apart to a halt. We all sat in a did-that-just-happen daze, listening to the tck,tck,tkc of cooling metal. Jon the first to speak.

“F**k.”

“Everybody okay?” I asked.

“F**k,” Jon answered.

“I don’t think I’m hurt,” Jerry said.

“F**k,” Jon said again. He was clutching the shifter in his hand as though he was not quite sure what to do with it.

“Jerry, can you get out?” I asked

“Yeah.”

“I SMELL GAS!” Jon screamed with panic in his voice.

I grabbed the door handle and tried to yank the door open. No good. I slammed my shoulder into it, and it gave. It was then I realized that I still had my seatbelt on. I hastily unbuckled it, then half-fell/half-crawled out the passenger side door. I found my feet, and before I realized what I was doing I slammed the door shut behind me. Jon was attempting to disentangle himself from the steering column and reach the passenger side door right as I slammed it in his face. Jerry fortunately had the presence of mind to run up and yank the door back open for him. I may have been dazed and shell-shocked at the time, but it was still not one of my finer moments.

When we were a safe distance away, we took a moment to take stock of the damage. The whole driver’s side front fender looked as though it had made a pass at a heavyweight boxer’s girlfriend, and the boxer had been standing within arms length. The wheel had been nearly torn off, and there was nothing left of most of the headlights. Jon had fortunately had the presence of mind to kill the engine before getting out, so we stood there assessing the catastrophe minus the possibility of fire and an explosion. We looked down Old 22 the way we had come, and saw empty road shimmering in the heat.

“F**k,” Jon said again, possibly for good measure.

“F**k,” I agreed.

“That sucks, dude.” Jerry said earnestly. He seemed to be the calmest of our little trio.

We turned away from the wrecked hulk of Jon’s independence, and took stock of our situation. It is important to note that this was before the age of EVERYONE having a mobile phone, and we were basically stranded with a wrecked automobile by the side of a back road that rarely saw much traffic. As we contemplated our plight, we heard the sound of an engine. The dropped and chopped pickup came into view, complete with all three apes. Jon tensed up, and Jerry and I did our best not to stand in a manner that indicated we were a threat. Surviving a car wreck that could have ended very differently and then having our teeth kicked in by rednecks was not a welcome prospect at that particular moment.

The truck ground to a halt in the gravel, and a the drive and the guy riding in the truck bed waved us over without getting out of the truck. Jon, being the most recovered at that point, did his best casual stroll. They spoke briefly, and the driver waved a mobile phone at Jon. They shook hands, and then the dude-bros pulled a u-turn and took off, never to be seen again. Jon made his way back over to us.

“Whats up?” I said.

“They said they called the staties,” he answered. “Somebody should be here to check on us soon.”

“That was decent of them,” I said. “I thought they were coming back to gloat.”

“Nah,” Jon said. “Just doing the right thing, surprisingly.”

At this point in the story, most people try to moralize about not judging people and how everyone is really decent deep down. F**k that noise. Those guys were a******s, and while I appreciated their kindness in contacting some help for us, if they hadn’t been acting like utter douchebags we might not have gotten in that wreck in the first place. Granted, we made some stupid decisions that day, but two wrongs seldom make a right.

Jon walked us all a safe distance away from the car and rummaged around in his jeans pocket, finally extracting his military issue cigarette pack protector. He opened the white plastic box and shook a some cigarettes from the pack of Luckies, putting one in his mouth passing one to me. He offered one to Jerry who held up his customary open hand of refusal. I was not keen on unfiltered smokes, but in that moment I forgot about the pack in my pocket, and lit up without a second thought. The nicotine hit was euphoric, as was the coughing fit I suffered shortly thereafter. It’s funny how something that you know can eventually kill you often reinforces the fact that you are still alive. We leaned up against the concrete wall of the overpass that had nearly killed all of us, taking drags and spitting from time to time. letting the sun bake us while the breeze cooled us off. Shortly thereafter, a state trooper patrol car rolled into view around the curve and pulled up behind what was left of the Omni.

The two troopers who got out resembled movie stereotypes. They were typical white guys in Oakley sunglasses, black uniforms, and matching buzzcuts. These guys even walked like movie cops: hands on their belts, thumbs stuck behind the leather on either side of the belt buckle. Both troopers didn’t look to be that much older than we were, and it was pretty clear as they surveyed the scene and the three forlorn-but-uninjured teenagers that they were struggling not to smile.

“Hey there guys,” the first trooper said, deadpanning. “Car trouble?”

His partner glanced over at him, and then turned back to us, his face impassive.

Great, I thought. A comedian. This is going to be awkward…

Trooper Number Two looked us over.

“Anybody need medical attention?” he asked seriously.

We all shook our heads. Number Two grabbed the radio mic on his shoulder

“Dispatch, everybody looks okay, no one is requesting medical attention, over.”

A voice squawked back an affirmative.

“Mind telling us what happened,” Trooper Number One said as he surveyed the remains of Jon’s car and looked back down the road at the long black skid marks on the pavement.

“Lost control going around the curve,” Jon replied, doing his best to stay just as deadpan. “Kinda glad we hit the guardrail and not the abutment.”

“You guys weren’t racing, were you?” Number Two deadpanned.

You know goddamn well what happened, I thought. You are enjoying this way too much not to. F**k those goddamn douchebags and the piece of s**t truck they rode in on.

“No, just headed out to New Tripoli,” Jon answered casually.

Number One exchanged a look with Number Two, then they both turned their attention back on us. The wheels on the bus that is the Universe were clearly going right over us today. I kept my smart mouth shut for the time being though.

“How fast do you think you were you going?” Number One asked, taking a notebook out of his shirt pocket.

S**t, I thought to myself.

“‘Bout forty, forty-five,” Jon said quietly.

Number One gave him a long look, pausing with his pen over his notebook.

“I know how confusing it can be when you get in a wreck,” Number One said carefully. “So I will ask that question again: you really sure about that?”

“Yep,”

“Well, I guess we could get the drag sled out of the car and see…”

It was at this point that Number Two must have taken pity on us.

“I don’t think we need to do that,” he said, cutting off his partner. “You boys need a ride somewhere so you can call a tow truck?”

“That’d be great,” I said quickly before Jon could respond. “How far can you take us?”

“We can drop you down at the Arby’s in Fogelsville there,” he replied.

“Thank you, sir,” Jerry said. Jon said nothing, which was honestly the smartest thing he could have done at that point in time. As Jerry and I climbed into the back of the squad car, Jon ran over to the wreck of his car. He stuck his head in the rolled down passenger side window of the Omni and rummaged around in the glove compartment for a minute, eventually emerging with a blue plastic envelope containing his registration and insurance information.  He piled into the back seat, and Number Two shut the door. I had never been in the back of a police car before. It was far more uncomfortable than I had previously imagined, and there were no seatbelts.

The radio squawked, and Number One informed the dispatcher that nobody was hurt and they were dropping us in Fogelsville. We sat in silence, and about ten minutes later we were deposited at the Arby’s parking lot.

“Take care guys,” Number Two said before they drove off. “We got another call, otherwise we’d take you further.”

“Thank you, gentleman,” Jon replied as we echoed his words. The squad car drove off. I’m not certain, but I’m pretty sure I heard them laughing as they drove off.

“Anybody got some quarters?” Jon asked. We all fished in our pockets and came up with a handful of loose change.

“Lunch?” I suggested, jerking my head towards the Arby’s.

“Yeah,” he answered. Jon still seemed dazed and a little shaken.

We made our way inside and ordered the kind of meal a man orders when he has had a brush with death: the biggest cheese covered wads of roast beef we could shove in our mouths, and a metric ton of curley fries, all washed down with a coffee milkshake. Looking back now, I don’t know how I am still alive given the crap I used to eat. I suppose the universe really does extend its reluctant and affectionate protection to small children, drunkards, and fools. We mostly ate in silence, slathering our sandwiches in sauces before gorging ourselves. Survival gives you quite an appetite when you are nineteen. Jon looked at me sharply over his sandwich, a sudden realization dawning on his face.

“I could have killed you,” he said incredulously.

“Yesh,” I grunted around a mouthful of roast beef and onion roll. “But nobody died. Chalk it up as a win.”

“I could have killed all of us,” Jon said, still in shock, his sandwich resting partially unwrapped on the brown plastic tray.

“But you didn’t,” Jerry responded. “We’re all alive and nobody got hurt.”

“Yeah but…”

“Jon,” I said quietly and kindly as I could. “Eat your lunch. Everything is fine.”

I was trying not to be angry with him. Jon had a tendency to get a bit dramatic and have existential crises at the drop of a hat. The last thing I wanted to do at the moment was think about what might have happened.

“Guys, I’m serious we could have all…”

At this point I had enough.

“Jon,” I said far less kindly and quietly. “Shut the f**k up, eat your goddamn sandwich and french fries, and finish your f*****g milkshake.”

“Don’t think about it,” Jerry agreed. “Everything worked out okay. It was just a car.”

“My f*****g car,” Jon moaned, his head sinking into his hands.

“Jon!” I said snapping my fingers to get his attention, then pointing at his tray. “Goddamn sandwich! Fries! F*****g milkshake! It will all be okay.”

He nodded, and ate reluctantly, but was mercifully silent. The last thing we needed that day was anyone getting on a f*****g drama trip about the meaning of life and how fleeting existence is. The day had already taken a dark turn for the worse, and I wasn’t about to let that ruin my day.

While Jerry and I finished out milk shakes, Jon went over to the payphone and began feeding quarters into it. He made a few calls reporting the accident and trying to find us a ride. We ended up calling a friend we knew from Kutztown who happened to be on his way into Allentown for a meeting, and he was kind enough to pick us up, not ask a lot of questions, and drop us off closer to Jerry’s parents place in the little town I had grown up in. Once we were on the one main street that ran the length of town , I remembered that Jerry’s and my high school Spanish teacher lived just off the main drag a couple blocks away. A short walk later and we were knocking on her door.

After we explained the situation, she nodded sagely, refrained from asking questions about the accident itself, and piled us all into her old conversion van. As we drove, she asked us about college and our families, but kept the conversation light. I could tell by the occasional smirk she gave us that she knew that there was a great deal we weren’t telling her. One of the things I always loved about this teacher though was that she didn’t ever press you to tell her things, she let you get to that point yourself. If you never did, she let it go.

We arrived back at the farm safely, and our teacher dropped us off at the end of the driveway.

“Be safe, guys,” she said as she turned the van around and headed off down the road. I don’t think I have seen her since that day in person.

We stood at the end of the driveway in the late afternoon sun, listening to the wind in the fir trees, the geese honking by the pond, and the peeper chorus whose song rose and fell like the breeze over the farm.

“F**k,” Jon said.

“F**k,” I agreed.

“F**k,” Jerry concurred.

Jerry held out his hand to Jon, and Jon fished in his pocket wordlessly handed him the blasting cap. Jerry put it in his pocket. The three of us turned as one man, and trudged down the gravel driveway. Up the red wooden stairs we went, through the screen porch, and through the back door to the heart Jerry’s parents home: the kitchen. Jerry and I sat and drank sweet tea at the kitchen table while Jon made telephone calls on the old wall phone by the living room arch. Chris and Pam never really asked us about the accident or the nature of our errand. As for Jon, Jerry, and I, we never spoke of it again, nor did any of us ever try to talk the others into using it.

The universe did not favor it.

Author's Note

This is not exactly what happened that day, but it is as close as I could come to not fictionalizing the entire thing.