The recipe Bobby downloaded from howtobuildabomb.com was simple enough. A little bit of dishwasher detergent, some plant food, five hundred milligrams of vitamin C, (chewable, mashed to a powder), a cup of gasoline and four Rolaids. Simmer over high flame for exactly seven minutes, stirring occasionally, then pour mixture into a bundt cake pan, the nonstick kind. Let cool overnight, then package. (See directions for fusing.) The tricky part, of course, was obtaining all the ingredients. Where was he going to get gasoline? The garage was empty; Mom was at work and Dad was fishing with Bill Curry. Bobby checked out his dad’s workbench. Maybe there was a gas can or something. Nope, no gas can or lawn mower. Dad had loaned them to Chuck Worth, their old friend down the street, for the weekend. No gas. What to do?
Thirteen year olds are known for ingenuity, and Bobby O’Bryan was no exception. He hadn’t won last month’s Science Fair Trophy by not being inventive. His self-contained erupting volcano was a hit. Magma oozed up and over the rim, red light bulbs flashed, and the goo (his secret mix) was drained into a reservoir under the table for continuous recycling. And of course, the magma flowed through a plastic village at the foot of the cone, simulating a natural catastrophe. Didn’t hurt to add drama.
‘Hey, wait, maybe this will work.’ Bobby, mind racing, pulled a can from the shelf. Mineral Spirits, the label said. Paint thinner. ‘Well, it’s like gasoline in that both are volatile distillates of petroleum,’ thought Bobby. ‘Yep..., substitute. Done deal. It should work OK, shouldn’t it?’ The can was full. Bobby measured out exactly one cup and poured it into a large stainless soup pot, and set it on a camping stove burner in the middle of the garage floor. He went in the house and scrounged the remaining ingredients from the kitchen cupboard and bathroom medicine cabinet. Goodies in hand, Bobby headed to the garage. He smashed the vitamin tablets with a hammer, then dropped the ingredients, one by one, into the pot. He checked the directions once more, got the cake pan ready, lit the burner, and stirred the mess together.
Seven minutes, the directions said. As he stirred, the mixture thickened into a milky, stinky, liquid glop. ‘My God, how could anything smell this bad?’ he thought. Maybe he’d better open a window. That acrid nostril-searing gas was overwhelming. He’d better get rid of the odor; Mom and Dad would ask questions. He walked over to the garage window and pulled it up, letting in a fresh draft. The mixture was steaming hot and starting to bubble.
The Chevy pulled into the driveway, smooth V-8 quiet. ‘Shit, thought Bobby. Dad’s home, and he’s gonna be pissed.’ Busted. Bobby didn’t panic, though. Thoughts racing and survival instincts kicking in, he decided on the spot to make up a story to explain the scene his father was about to see. Let’s see, he could say that he was making some kind of fuel additive to make cars run further on a tankful, or maybe a new concrete cleaner he needed to spiff up the garage floor, or maybe something so technical, Dad wouldn’t have a clue. Yeah, he was trying to disprove the Third Law of Thermodynamics, that was it!
The electrical relay in the overhead door opener clicked, the chain tightened, and the garage door began to raise. Bobby stood near the window, blinking his eyes against the virulent air. The pot bubbled over and the mixture dripped down the sides, toward the blue flame.
Lee O’Bryan had enjoyed a great morning. He and Bill Curry, his lifelong friend, had gone down to Beaver Creek, rented a boat and lounged, floating, talking shop and hoping that anything longer than a finger would take their bait. Getting away and out of the house was great for Lee, he was freed from the mundane, he communed with nature, and recharged. Lee and his buddy Bill got together at least one weekend a month to fish, hunt or hike. Business partners, they worked together at Ace Productions, a growth-oriented marketing and advertising agency they had started together nearly five years earlier. Ace Marketing, Bill’s responsibility, pushed health and beauty products on the Ace Channel TV Network, one hundred percent infomercials. Income was growing, and soon it would be time to spin off.
Ace On Air, Lee’s baby, was twenty-four hour newstalk radio, WCKY, 98.6 on your FM dial. A professional cadre of media specialists and field journalists brought the real-time world to the doorstep of the Great Midwest. Ace was doing well and beginning to challenge the major networks for market share.
Now in a reflective mood, Lee smiled as he cruised down Highway 40 toward Irvington Circle and home. Linda would be there soon. Bobby should already be there waiting, and hopefully he had cleaned out the garage, like he’d been told. Lee swore silently. That kid sure had his own agenda, spent a lot of time with his books and experiments. Lee was proud of his son, but wished that Bobby had some desire to accompany him on his occasional wilderness adventure. Brown-haired and chubby, Bobby was bookish, sure, but after all he was smart as hell and had won that Science Fair Trophy just last month. Lee told everyone at work and displayed the photo on his desk, a glossy eight by ten in full color of Bobby’s erupting "Mount Irvington."
"Hell," thought Lee, "Maybe Bobby would go on to Harvard and find a cure for cancer and rule the world. Anything is possible." Lee was going to make sure Bobby had every chance to succeed.
He pulled the Chevy into the drive and fingered the remote for his garage door opener. The door went up, and there was Bobby, standing at the window, looking at Lee.
A pail of something was sitting on his Coleman stove, smoking. "Bobby’s doing another experiment," thought Lee. "Better check this out." He opened the car door and stepped out. The smoking pail began to burn, blue flame licking up the sides. The panicked look on Bobby’s face changed to pained terror, blue fire reflected in his wide eyes.
As Lee stepped into the garage, chastisement on his lips, the pot containing Bobby’s bomb exploded with an angry bellow. The gummy mess blew over nearly every square foot of the garage, and a large blob, hot and flaming, landed smack on top of Lee O’Bryan’s bald head. Bobby stared, mouth open, transfixed, unable to move. Lee yelled in pain and grabbed the burning mess off his scalp and stomped it out.
Father and son looked at one another, neither knowing exactly what to say or how to say it. The top of his head burning and his heart pounding, Lee took three deep breaths and asked dryly. "Is this your latest invention, son?"
