The Last Bang
By PAUL LIMAReturn to Creative Writing
A creative writing assignment. To be written over the Victoria Day long weekend. Where do they get off doing things like that to us? They is Mr. Henderson, my grade eleven English teacher. Us is my entire English class. And Mr. H. has managed to ruin our holiday weekend by giving us an assignment.
Don't get me wrong, I love creative writing. But where's the creativity in "a one-thousand word story, written in first person, due Tuesday morning nine o'clock sharp, three-hole punched in a duo-tang folder, don't forget your title page, no excuses for tardiness because you've got an entire long weekend to work on it. Right class?" Or was it, "Write, class?"
If anybody can use a shot of creativity, it's Mr. H.
Like I said, I love to write, but I write stories about rock stars getting laid, hockey superstars getting groupied and dragon-slaying knights getting princesses--but not getting married.
I never write in what Mr. H. calls "first person" because my stories are never about me. Which is exactly why Mr. H. gave us our holiday weekend marathon writing assignment: "To teach you that the ‘I’ in first-person narrative is not you."
You see, we're studying Catcher In The Rye and we're convinced--at least I am--that Holden Caufield is J. D. Salinger in disguise even though Mr. H. says Caufield is fiction. When I ask Mr. H., "If Salinger isn't Caufield then why does he use 'I' to tell his story?" Mr. H. drones on about narrator and persona, first person, third-person limited, third-person omniscient. And when he finishes, I say, "Sure, but if Salinger isn't Caufield then why does he use 'I' to tell his story?"
That’s when Mr. H. says, "Simon, I sense some confusion here and suspect others may feel it as well. They're just not as vocal about it as you." Then he gives us the writing assignment.
"Way to go, asshole," Reggie Hobart says at the end of class.
"Like we didn't have anything better to do this week-end," Todd Johnson adds.
But what's worse than being ostracized by my friends is this queasy déjà vu feeling I have: once again I'm doomed to fail English.
Rather than work on my story Friday evening, I hang out at the pool hall with Reggie and Todd who have either forgiven me or totally forgot that they have an extra English assignment to do. I get home at midnight, in time to watch the Baby Blue movie on CITY-TV. When I wake up around noon I actually skip watching wrestling on CHCH-TV and take a pen and writing pad outside and sit on my back porch.
After placing my hand on a blank sheet of paper and tracing my fingers several times, I declare forced creativity a useless waste of time and flip my pen in the air. It falls between the wood slats of the porch and I contemplate leaving it there but visions of repeating Grade 11 English, again, inspire me to go fish for it.
That's where I find it: a faded, mouse-chewed cannon firecracker. As dog-eared as it is I figure there's no reason why it wouldn't explode with a boom loud enough to wake the neighbourhood. So, in memory of Victoria Days before firecrackers were banned in Toronto, I pull a pack of matches from my back pocket and ignite the cannon.
The fuse hisses, sputters, goes silent, hisses again and then... nothing. But something inside me explodes and suddenly I know exactly what I'm going to write for Mr. H....
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It may have been Victoria Day but there was little to celebrate because of the year-old by-law that banned the use of firecrackers in the streets of Toronto.
Because of the ban, my friends, Roger and Claude, and I couldn't drop cannon crackers down sewers this year. We always tried to drop them so they'd explode just before they hit the sewer sludge. The force of the explosion would cause sludge to gush up and anybody brave enough or dumb enough to hover over the sewer grate would get coated with a thick splash of black ooze.
Because of the ban, we didn't wrap worms around our crackers and blow them into slimy bits that insisted on trying to wriggle home. Instead, we dawdled aimlessly in backyards, sulked in lane ways and sat on my back porch cursing the politicians who had taken the bang out of Victoria's birthday.
To make amends for taking the bang out of Victoria's birthday, City Hall politicians decided to spend a few bucks on fireworks displays in neighbourhood parks.
The ad in The Toronto Telegram a week before the event said the fireworks would be a "grand spectacle."
Except for me and my friends, Claude and Roger, everybody on our street was going to Christie Pits to watch the show. I wanted to see the fireworks but Roger and Claude were pissed off because of the ban and refused to go. I didn't want them pissed off with me too so I joined their boycott.
Then Claude's big brother, Mike, offered us an unopened package of contraband cannon crackers he had picked up while on a beer-drinking trip in Buffalo.
"We can’t use those," I moaned. "If we get caught, we're done for."
"If you don't want the bangers, Sammy, there's hundreds of kids out there that does," Mike said.
"We'll keep 'em," Roger declared. And I could tell by the tone of his voice that he'd already started to scheme.
Mike smiled. "That's the spirit."
We figured he only brought us the crackers to ease his conscience because he was partly responsible for the firecracker ban. Last Victoria Day, as Claude leaned over a sewer grate and waited for me to drop in two sizzling cannons, Mike crept up on him and ignited the string of Lady Fingers hanging from his brother's back pocket. With explosions nipping at his behind, Claude yelped and danced up and down the street.
Mike, Roger and I nearly split a gut laughing and I dropped my cannons. My laughter was cut short by the ‘ka-boom’ of crackers echoing in the sewer followed by a thick splash of sewer sludge that covered me.
Claude was wriggling on the sidewalk trying to put out his smoldering britches when the cops cruised by. They took him to the hospital for treatment of what proved to be minor burns. His was one of a dozen names to appear in The Toronto Telegram the next day under the headline "Victoria Day Blood Bath."
Two weeks later, the by-law banning firecrackers was on the books.
After accepting Mike's gift, Roger, Claude and I sat in silence on my back porch trying to figure out how to use the crackers without getting caught. Backyards and playgrounds were definitely out. The lane was a possibility, but you never knew when somebody might open a garage door or when the cops might come by.
"I've got it," Roger said, snapping his fingers. "We're going to Christie Pits."
"I thought we were protesting the ban," Claude said.
"Once it gets dark and the fireworks display starts, nobody's gonna hear us letting off a few bangers."
"I dunno," Claude said. "I don't wanna get caught breaking any laws."
"Ah, don't be a suck, Claude. What do you think, Sammy?"
"Sounds like a plan to me," I said because I really wanted to see fireworks. "Think of the damage we could do to a couple of juicy worms."
"Or maybe even to a frog," Roger said.
"Yeah to a warty frog like Claude."
Roger laughed and Claude sucker-punched me in the arm.
"Hey," I said.
"So we're all in then?" Roger asked.
"I'm in," Claude said.
"Me too," I said rubbing my arm.
Christie Pits filled early Victoria Day evening. Families brought large blankets to spread on the grass-covered hills of the old gravel pit as they munched on sandwiches and cookies and drank hot chocolate and coffee from large thermos containers. As dusk settled, mothers gathered impatient children into their laps and wrapped them in bulky sweaters. Fathers abandoned card games and lit cigarettes as their talk turned to politics.
One loud voice complained about having to watch his taxes go up in smoke, but most of the adults were as excited about the fireworks as the kids.
Claude, Roger and I went worm picking in the damp grass and captured a handful of night crawlers. Then we set up shop in a small clump of trees behind the fireworks launch stage.
With great ceremony we began to wrap our worms around our cannon crackers. I paused for a moment and peered through the trees to watch a man ignite an industrial-strength Roman candle. There was a high-pitched whistle followed by an explosion as red, white and green streams of light filled the sky.
Enthralled by the fiery display, I forgot about my crackers until a ka-boom close by startled me. It was one of Roger's cannons exploding at my feet. Bits of worm pasted themselves to my bare arms and face. I lit a cracker and tossed it at Roger. As grey smoke from the city’s fireworks drifted through our woods, we blew up worms and tossed crackers at each other.
Down to his last cracker, Roger yelled, "Dare!" and held a firecracker at arm's length. I stood next to him, holding out one of mine. Claude struck a match and counted to three. Roger and I touched our fuses to the flame.
Our fuses hissed, paused momentarily, then sparked. I held the end of my cracker between the tips of my fingers, ready to chuck it the moment Roger tossed his--but not one second sooner. Above us, fireworks continued to light up the sky with kaleidoscopic colours and thunderous explosions. My fuse sputtered; Roger's sizzled.
When he realized he had the faster wick, Roger shouted "Geronimo!" and tossed his cracker at me. Dare won, I flung my cannon cracker away. The explosion that followed seconds later was not that of two cannon crackers detonating. It was more like heavy artillery at the height of battle.
Looking through the trees, I saw flickering flames. People leapt from the blazing stage shouting instructions as fireworks shot into the crowd.
Moments later sirens screamed.
Roger, Claude and I came out of the woods to watch fire fighters douse the smoldering ruins of the stage. Then we joined a crowd gathering around the back of an ambulance as attendants loaded a small figure on a stretcher into the back of the vehicle.
The next day, I walked to school with Claude and Roger. We didn't talk about the fireworks. Even if they suspected what I thought--that the cannon cracker I had tossed caused the fireworks to explode--they said nothing. But, unlike the brilliant colours of fireworks that quickly fade in the night sky, the memory of the last bang I made with a cannon cracker has always stayed with me.
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Three days after we hand in our writing assignments, Mr. H. gives them back to us--at least he gives them back to everybody except me. "Simon," he says, clearing his voice for effect, "I want to see you at the end of the day."
"Sir?" I say.
"After school," he replies in that aloof way of his that leaves me squirming in my seat.
I figure I've totally screwed up my short story assignment and that I'm in for another one of Mr. H.'s shape-up-or-you'll-fail-English lectures.
After my last class, I head back to Mr. H’s room. He is sitting on the edge of his desk, my story in hand.
"Simon," he says as I approach him, "I want you to know I was very disturbed by your story."
"Disturbed, sir?"
"I went to the library and looked through back copies of The Telegram on microfilm. I found an article about the death of a young lad in Toronto on Victoria Day weekend several years ago. Seems he was killed when a stage used to launch fireworks at Christie Pits caught on fire."
"I remember that, sir."
My teacher leans forward and ruffles the pages of my assignment. "The police never found out why the fireworks exploded." He pauses. I say nothing. "I think you should confess, Simon."
"Confess what, sir?"
"This," he says. "What you did, Simon." He thrusts my story at me.
"What did I do?"
"Are you telling me this didn’t happen? That you didn't cause the fire?"
"Did J. D. Salinger do all the stuff Holden Caufield does?"
"Well..." Mr. H. sputters, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Not necessarily. No. What I mean is. Well, this happened..."
"I was there, sir, at Christie Pits. I saw the fire, the kid, the ambulance. If that's cheating, sir, then I'm sorry, but I still don't understand first person narrative."
"I guess..." Mr. H pauses. Shakes his head. "If that's cheating, then you cheated about as much as any author does."
I'm not quite sure what Mr. H means, but it doesn't sound like bad news. So I venture a question: "Does that mean I'm gonna pass English?"
"Going to. You are going to pass English. If you apply yourself and keep up this kind of work for the rest of the semester, you just might," Mr. H. says. And then he actually smiles.
"Thank you, sir," I say.
As I leave the classroom I look back at Mr. H. who is sitting on the edge of his desk, reading my story again. And it's like finding the cannon cracker all over again. I feel another explosion inside and I know exactly what I’m going to write next.
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