Look Out Boys, She's Gonna Blow!

 

Back in the late sixties, when I was a teenager, my dad worked at Hayes Aircraft in Birmingham. Hayes was a bustling place back then—busy as a kicked-over ant bed. Besides refitting cargo planes for the government, they'd landed a big contract with NASA to help out on the Saturn V rocket program. Folks worked twelve-hour days, seven days a week, and even though the pay was good, family time was hard to come by. But once all the overtime died down, we started living more like a family again. We'd go on outings, visit with Dad’s coworkers, and even take trips together with other families from the plant.

One family we spent a good bit of time with was the Busseys—we went camping with them one week at Wind Creek State Park, and we took lots of weekend fishing trips down to Lake Martin or Eufaula. Dad had plenty of friends at Hayes, but one stood out for sure: a loud, funny, sometimes braggadocious fella named Cecil. He was the kind of guy who could light up a room just by talking a little too loud and pulling out a hundred-dollar bill like it had just surprised him in his own coat pocket. “Well, would you look at that?” he’d holler, waving it around before tucking it into his wallet, laughing like it was the first time he’d ever pulled that stunt—even though it wasn’t.

Cecil had two boys, Joey and Jimmy. Joey was my age and Jimmy a couple years younger. On weekends when he had the boys, they’d come over, and our dads would plan little father-son getaways. That’s how we ended up on all kinds of misadventures together.

Now, Dad was a country man through and through—raised on Wolf Creek Road, where you made what you needed or did without. He could rig up a turkey call out of a Coke bottle and a rubber band or patch a busted gas tank with a bar of Octagon soap. I’m not kidding. Once, on a camping trip out by Golden’s Lake, our car hit a rock and cracked the tank. Next morning, Dad rubbed that soap into the hole until it sealed tight enough to get us to a garage. Cecil loved that story, retold it to anyone who’d listen. "I swear," he’d say, shaking his head, "LeRoy could fix a rocket ship with a roll of duct tape and a toothpick."

Joey and I got to be good friends. So one weekend, I was invited to stay with him and Jimmy at their mom’s house in Irondale. She let us camp down by a little creek that ran behind her place. We packed up sleeping bags, a few snacks, and some marshmallows for roasting. Just as we were heading out, Joey ducked into the garage and came back with a can of kerosene.

“Just to help get the fire started,” he said.

The fire did start, but it was slow and smoky, and we wanted a real campfire—the kind that roars and crackles like the ones you see in Westerns. So Joey grabbed the kerosene and poured it straight on the flames.

What happened next felt like it played out in slow motion. The fire whooshed up, a trail of flame shot into the can, and Joey flinched, dropping it right there in the dirt. It landed upright—blazing from the spout like a Roman candle. Without thinking, I yelled, “Look out, boys! She’s gonna blow!” and gave the can a hard kick.

It sailed toward the creek—but not before it sprayed a trail of burning kerosene right across Jimmy’s pant leg.

He screamed, took off running, and only made it worse. Joey tackled him and smothered the flames with a sleeping bag. Somehow, we put it out, and Jimmy was still in one piece. But we were scared stiff. We begged him to keep quiet and sleep it off. “You don’t wanna get us all in trouble,” we pleaded.

Jimmy wasn’t buying it. Within minutes, he was hoofing it home. We trailed behind, dread building with every step.

His mom’s reaction was... memorable.

She took one look at Jimmy, then turned to me and shook me like a rug. “You almost killed my boy!” she hollered. She called my dad, and I got sent home in a hurry. Jimmy ended up at the ER with second-degree burns on his leg.

I didn’t see much of Jimmy after that. He showed up at our place once more, just to show off his scars like a badge of honor. “See that?” he grinned, lifting his pant leg. “That’s from when y’all set me on fire.” He wasn’t mad—if anything, he seemed proud.

Cecil and Joey still came by now and then, and though we all laughed about it years later, I never forgot that night.

Looking back, we were just a bunch of boys trying to play grown-up. There was danger, sure. Dumb choices too. But we learned from it—or at least, we hoped we did. I think about how lucky we were that night by the creek, and I’m thankful for the way boys become men—through fire sometimes, both the literal kind and the kind that comes from being held accountable.

And every now and then, when I smell smoke from a campfire, I hear my own voice echoing down through the years:

“Look out, boys—she’s gonna blow!”

Mischievous Melvin

 

My first part-time job was at a small family-owned grocery store in town, and I couldn’t have been prouder. It wasn’t much—bagging groceries and hauling them out to customers’ cars—but to me, it meant independence, a paycheck, and a foot in the door of the real working world. I was the youngest “bag boy” on staff, still a little wet behind the ears, eager to prove myself.

The owners were good people—a husband and wife team who ran the place like a well-oiled machine, their daughter working one of the registers with a quiet competence. My first day was mostly a blur of brown paper sacks, awkward pleasantries, and hauling groceries to the parking lot under the watchful eye of the older boys. One senior in high school took me under his wing and promised to show me “how to get the good tips.” His strategy? Compliment the customer, especially if it was someone he already knew. “You been to Gertrude’s today?” he’d ask, nodding to their hairstyle. It worked. He’d walk away with dollar bills while I clutched my fifty-cent coins and tried to remember how to make small talk without sounding like I was reading off a cue card.

But for all the good-hearted lessons and occasional kindness, that grocery store had its dark corners. Literally.

On my very first shift, I made the rookie mistake of waiting too long to use the bathroom, determined to stay on the floor and prove my work ethic. When I finally gave in, I hurried to the back storeroom and into the small bathroom tucked away from view. What I hadn’t noticed was the metal hasp on the outside of the door—the kind you could drop a pin through to lock someone in.

I was no sooner seated than I heard the sharp clink of that hasp slamming shut. A few seconds later, someone slid something under the door.

Ammonia.

The sharp, choking fumes hit me like a punch to the lungs. My eyes burned, and I gasped for breath, panicking, clawing at the door, beating on the walls. I couldn’t breathe. Just when I thought I couldn’t take any more, the door opened. The owner stood there shaking his head. “Those guys, always picking on the new kids,” he muttered, before telling me to clean myself up and get back to work.

That was my welcome to the team.

Then there was Melvin.

Melvin was the store butcher, and he could’ve been plucked straight out of a southern tall tale. He was part storyteller, part jokester, and part mad scientist. One Saturday morning, I arrived to find a small crowd gathered at the back of the store. Melvin stood at the center, a wooden box in his hands. “Caught me a weasel,” he announced, eyes twinkling. The box, he explained, was a trap he’d set in the woods behind his house, where he’d supposedly spent hours waiting for this “vicious little critter” to wander in.

He had us hanging on every word. He warned us the thing was nasty—that it could leap out and latch onto your face if given even the smallest opening. I begged to go first, and Melvin, clearly savoring the moment, agreed. “Just crack it a hair,” he said. “Just a hair.”

I leaned in slowly, eyes inches from the lid. At the perfect moment, Melvin flung the lid open—and a spring-loaded raccoon tail shot out and smacked me right between the eyes. I must’ve jumped ten feet in the air. Melvin howled with laughter. So did everyone else.

He got me again a few months later.

One afternoon, Melvin called me over to the meat counter and handed me a package, about the size of a cigar box, wrapped neatly in white butcher paper. “Take this to the boss,” he said, holding one end while I reached for the other.

The moment I had a grip, I felt like I’d grabbed a live wire.

A jolt shot up my arm like lightning. I screamed and dropped the package as Melvin and the older bag boys nearly collapsed laughing. Once I caught my breath, I couldn’t help but admire the sheer creativity behind it—Melvin was more prankster than butcher, and this was his pièce de résistance.

Later, after enough pleading, Melvin agreed to lend me his “shock box.” He made me promise to return it after one day. I had plans.

I showed it off to my friend Mike, and we hopped on our motorcycles and headed to the Leeds city pool. That’s where we spotted Marilyn. She’d just gotten out of the water and was walking barefoot toward the concession stand.

I called out, “Hey Marilyn, can you take this up to the snack counter for me?”

She smiled, always one to help, and reached for the box.

The moment her fingers wrapped around it, I pressed the hidden button on the other end. The shock that passed through her wet, barefoot body must’ve felt like it came straight from the heavens—or hell. She screamed and let loose a string of profanity I didn’t know she had in her. Mike and I nearly fell over laughing—until the reality of what we’d done hit me. It wasn’t funny. Not really.

Melvin’s box was pure mischief. Inside was an old automotive ignition coil, wired up with a 9-volt battery and a doorbell button. A layer of foil conducted the charge right through the butcher paper. Ingenious. Dangerous, in hindsight. What we thought was a harmless prank could’ve gone very wrong.

And Marilyn, well… I still owe her an apology. A real one. It’s been years, but if I ever cross paths with her again, I’ll say what I should’ve said back then.

We all play the fool when we’re young—especially when we think we’re being clever. And sometimes the best stories are the ones that remind us how much growing up we had to do.