The Camaro Bomber

There’s a difference between violence and senseless violence. — DMX

How does one become known as the Camaro Bomber, you might ask?  Before you judge me for destroying a magnificent automobile, hear my side of the story.

Mostly it was because I'm the quiet type.  I didn't have many friends growing up.  I was one of those kids that got picked on a lot.

So I kept to myself, preferring model airplanes over people.  While everyone else was going to school dances and football games, I became a technology nerd. 

That made me a perfect target for the bullies.  All of them picked on me.  My biggest enemy, and the person who set me on this path, was Hardy Doville.

Hardy was the golden boy of our school.   Straight A's, Student Council president, pitcher on the baseball team.  And a first rate bully.  I lost track of how many times he stole my lunch money.

Neither Hardy nor I knew I had a breaking point.  A line, if pushed across, would make me go berserk.  Hardy pushed me over that line.

It was between history and PE.  The gymnasium was in a separate building.  I'd just gone out the door when I felt hands on my back. I sprawled on the ground as I heard that familiar, cruel laugh.  Hardy.

As usual, he had his sidekicks with him.  Two held me down while Hardy pulled off my shoes.  He tied the laces together, then proved why he was a big league college baseball prospect.  He was able to get my shoes hung over an electrical line on the first throw.

The principal was no help.  Instead of punishing Hardy, he told me, "You really need to learn to stand up for yourself."  At least I had a pair of sneakers in my gym locker.  Going barefoot the rest of the day would have invited more bullying.

What the man said burned in my head as I walked home.  "Stand up for yourself."  I began plotting revenge. 

There was no way I could confront Hardy directly.  He was bigger than me, and always surrounded by minions.  What I had going for me was science.

Hardy's prized possession was his car.  After leading the baseball team to the state championship, his dad bought him a brand new Camaro.  Dark green, with a pair of white stripes on the hood and trunk.

I'd made my own fireworks before.  When you cut away the cardboard wrapper from a model rocket engine, you are left with a chunk of solid fuel.  I had no trouble sneaking around in the student parking lot.  I jacked open the hood of the Camaro and connected the homemade device to the distributor wire.

When Hardy turned the key, I was expecting a bang and a cloud of smoke.  In my mind, I saw the other kids laughing at him as he watched a dark cloud pour from under the hood.

Turns out I used too much rocket fuel.  The explosion blew the hood loose and the engine caught fire.  

I'll never forget the stunned look on his face as Hardy watched the Camaro burn.  

At least the fire department put out the blaze before the gas tank blew.  That prevented the mayhem from destroying any innocent automobiles.  But the engine was roasted.  Between the fire, smoke, and the water, the interior was a mess.  The Camaro was a total loss.  It didn't take long for the police to show up at our house.

Hardy's parents decided not to press charges, in exchange for me getting expelled from school.  That was a problem.  There was only one high school in our town.  At the tender age of 16, my formal education was over.  It was time to find a job.

Not an easy task, in a small town, where you are known as the Camaro Bomber.

That is how I ended up working for pennies over minimum wage, repairing TVs and stereos in the back of Mr. Lemley’s electronics shop.  It’s a cautionary tale, kids.  Don’t let this happen to you.