Maryhurst Prep 03

Time for a couple unusual stories. One occurred on a Saturday evening right before bedtime in the fall of my junior year while I was making my bed. By way of explanation, we always stripped our sheets once a week, usually on Saturday mornings, and by that night the clean sheets were ready to be put on the beds. I recall being very tired and was determined to finish as fast as possible so I could literally fall into bed. I grabbed two corners of the tightly folded sheet in my hands and snapped it open over the bed several times to get it to lie down just right. As I stretched forward to make sure the sheet reached all the way to the headboard my pecker must have slipped out the opening in the front of my P.J.s and touched the metal frame. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a large blue spark of static electricity shoot from the frame to my unprotected wiener. ZAP! I let out an involuntary cry of pain and fell across the bed twisting in agony.

Naturally everyone looked over in astonishment as strict silence was the rule after night prayers. As I lay on the bed writhing in pain Bro. Xav appeared and in a stern whisper demanded to know what was going on. When I was able to catch my breath, I told him exactly how I sustained a static electric shock to the most vulnerable and tender part of my body. He had to bite his lip to hold back the laughter. He quietly told me it was only a temporary problem and to suffer in silence the next time. As he walked away I whispered that if I had anything to do with it there wouldn’t be a next time. Which made him chuckle all the way back to his room.

*     *     *

This next story is more serious in nature but sort of hysterical nonetheless. I never did very well in chemistry. Perhaps it was the math orientation but somehow chemistry and I never hit it off. However, in junior year my morning housework assignment was to clean the Chem Lab. I usually was able to finish the job fairly quickly, especially when the class hadn’t performed an experiment the preceding day and so had time on my hands. When that happened I was supposed to report to the Morning Work Supervisor and help someone else until the bell for classes rang. In actual practice, few boys were that oriented to the general welfare and rather than volunteer for more work they goofed around those last few minutes.

On the occasions when I had little to do I would read whatever general material on chemistry was available in Bro. Fred’s files. One day I found a treatise on the distillation of alcohol from potatoes and, having recruited Herb B., another McBride High classmate, as my accomplice, rigged up a crude still from equipment in the lab. We actually made a small quantity of alcohol but when we drank it all we got were terrific headaches, probably because we didn’t distill or filter it properly. Whatever, we weren’t about to risk doing it a second time. All I could think of was going blind from some sort of impurity in the alcohol.

Next, I found an old textbook on explosives. Herb and I were fascinated by the story of how Nobel discovered dynamite. Naturally, the first thing we made was black powder but we were unsatisfied with the results. Our sights were set on bigger fish. I found a reference to a powerful explosive, nitrogen tri-iodide, that provided detailed manufacturing instructions. The article explained that the explosive was never used in warfare because of its inherent instability, especially when dry. Minor changes in temperature, slight vibrations, or even exposure to sunlight were enough to set it off. Which, instead of scaring the living shit out of me, was the precise enticement I needed.

That day after classes a free period was scheduled during which we could basically do anything we wanted, within reason. So Herb and I sneaked into the Chem Lab, using the key I had, and started making the explosive. The chemical proved surprisingly easy to create, taking not even an hour. I must have belatedly recalled the warning in the textbook because we wet the dark granules thoroughly with tap water to prevent the explosive from drying out. Then, in a fit of perverse deviltry, I sprinkled a small quantity around the room to booby-trap unwary visitors. The moist remainder was placed in a shallow ceramic dish, covered with a damp cloth, and hidden in the back of the large glass-front cabinets in which were stored all the glass equipment used in our class-room experiments. And promptly forgotten as we slipped out to mingle innocently with our buddies until we could retrieve it for only God knows what purpose the following day. Who could remember exactly what we had in mind? Not me.

Early that morning, probably around 3:00 AM, we were awakened by a loud explosion that set off the building’s fire alarms and brought the Kirkwood Fire and Police Departments. After milling about uncertainly for fifteen minutes we were informed by Fr. Dorsey, the Chaplin, that there had been a gas explosion in one of the ovens in the kitchen. He told us everything was under control so, kids we were, we went right back to sleep.

After breakfast the Principal, Bro. Fred Weisbruch, who also happened to be the Chemistry teacher, grimly announced that the explosion had been in the Chem Lab and anyone with information concerning its cause should see him immediately. My heart turned to lead in my chest and my breakfast threatened to come up that moment. When I looked across the Refectory at Herb his face was an unhealthy shade of gray. We were both paralyzed with fear and apprehension.

As I walked down the corridor toward Bro. Fred (he was standing outside the entrance to the Lab) there must have been a look of absolute guilt on my face. He had Herb by the neck and said grimly, “Ah ha! Here’s the other culprit. Come on in, Don’t be so shy, I want you both to see the damage you’ve caused.” He pushed us ever so reluctant and guilty culprits ahead of him into the mess.

It was not a pretty sight. The explosion had destroyed most of the wooden cabinets, glass fronts, and had taken out part of the plaster wall behind them. Glass fragments and broken pieces of cabinetry and shelving were strewn everywhere, on the floor, tables, desks, and even on the window ledges across the room. Big-time damage. My heart sank even lower, if that were physically possible. The three of us stood silently surveying the debacle.

Bro. Fred sighed and asked seriously, “What am I going to do with you two?” It was not an innocent, rhetorical question. He wanted to know where he could dump our cold bodies after he made us suffer for our crime. We hung our heads, pretending to be deaf as well as invisible. He sighed again as he walked around the desks toward the front of the room.

As he approached the head table where he always demonstrated the experiments to the class we heard a number of little pops, like miniature muted explosions. Bro. Fred looked at the floor and then at us, frowning questioningly. Immediately I realized he was stepping on the minute amounts of nitrogen tri-iodide we had scattered on the floor. Oh my God, I thought. Here it comes. I could already read the newspaper headlines.

             STUDENTS MURDERED BY ENRAGED TEACHER

Bro. Fred took two or three more steps, this time watching carefully where he put his feet. Then it hit him. At that instant I understood why cartoonists illustrate someone having an idea with a picture of a light bulb turning on. Comprehension flooded his eyes. He turned angrily toward us, pointing a stiffly accusing finger like the business end of a loaded .45. “Ah ha! You threw some of the explosive on the floor, didn’t you?” It was not a question either of us cared to answer.

Before we could stammer out a reply he pounded his fist angrily down on top of the lab table. I watched helplessly as his fist descended, praying that he would miss the small mound of blackish-gray powder I had left on the table in front of him. No such luck. POW! A puff of blackish-purple smoke and a flash of light accompanied the miniature blast.

Bro. Fred yelped in surprise and shook his hand, which must have hurt. An involuntary, “Damnation!” escaped his lips. He stared at us in open-mouthed incredulity for what seemed an eternity. Then, to our amazement and utter disbelief, after a few eternity-long seconds he began laughing. From a low chuckle it grew into a loud belly laugh. Even though we still thought we were about to suffer a fate worse than savage dismemberment followed by a slow death and disappear from this world without a trace, in the next moment we were laughing with him. The situation was too contagious to resist.

Bro. Fred was probably reacting to the totally unexpected nature of the situation, which had to strike him, at least in part, as hilarious. However, what Herb and I were experiencing amounted to genuine hysterical fear, mixed with a minuscule measure of relief that, for the moment at least, we had survived his initial wrath and were still alive.

It took several long heartbeats for the hissy fit to pass. But, when it did, Bro. Fred cleared his throat and lectured us sternly for the next twenty minutes on the danger of abusing our knowledge of chemistry. The bad news he delivered about our parents having to pay for the damages eliminated whatever vestiges of humor remained.

In the end we were ordered to go and sin no more. After we cleaned up the mess. Which took us the rest of the morning. As I remember it, to our good fortune the school’s insurance covered nearly all the damages. Dad grumbled and threatened but all he had to pay was less than fifty dollars. But he ordered me to work all that summer to repay him. Which, of course, is exactly what happened. Naturally, as idiot teenagers, we failed to learn any lesson whatsoever from that experience.