Saturday, February 21, 2004

John and I walk through the local woods together. After a time, we reach our favorite clearing - a bare stretch along the bank creek where the decrepit wreckages of two cars lie stacked, partially buried in sediment and brush. Something sticks out from the bottom of the lower wreck. Something long and white.

John, who walks ahead of me by a few paces, approaches the foreign object with curiosity. He stoops. Peering intently over his head, I recognize the white tube as a section of PVC pipe. Clots of duct tape run the length of its side. Are those wires sticking out of it? John extends a broad hand towards the pipe as if to examine it, turn it over, tap it a few times. A familiar memory tugs at the hem of my mind. Danger danger danger. . .

"Don't," I call to John, and then again, abruptly "DON'T!" John's hand freezes as he looks up into my eyes. His gaze does the asking: Why?

"Back away from it John," I say as gravely as I can. To my relief, he does. I scuttle down the trail and study the PVC pipe with an expert eye. It consists of two sections adhered together: a long narrow tube and a short, stout receptacle bound mouth-to-mouth with silver duct tape. Wires dangle from the receptacle's plastic sides, held in place by more sloppy silver patches. A small black detonator with a cherry-red button lies on the ground nearby, connected to the apparatus by a strand of wire. I know what this is - no science fair project, that's for sure.

John and I leave the clearing furtively, looking over our shoulders from time to time, pretending that nothing has happened and it’s strictly business as usual. After a while, I wonder out loud if I should contact the authorities. What if some kid blew his hand off? "What if that kid was me?" John asks, masking his shocked sobriety with a cavalier facade. "Don't even talk like that," I say a little too loudly, "I don't even wanna think about it."

But for the next 4 hours I will see his hands reduce to spurting stumps, the flesh of his face peel away, and fragments of shrapnel embed in his torso over and over and over again. At five past midnight, I leave an anonymous phone message with the local police department. As I hang up, I swear to god I can smell burning hair.

shiny objects