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Friday, July 17, 2020

The Cherry Bomb Affair

Yesterday, my cousin sent this photo, also from yesterday--the yesterday of summer 1967. I'm the little punk on the left. The tall, handsome one is my brother, Gary. But our names were not Richy and Gary in the summer of 1967, they were Paul and James Foren and we were Commanders in the Order of the Secret Service. We were in California with our parents visiting my Cousin, David--who was not David but Robert Harrington, Commander-in-Chief of the Order. In this photo, taken in Oakland, we are standing in front of our time machine, which we called 'Cecil Books'. Looks a bit like a brick wall, doesn't it? Ah, but looks can be deceiving. Perhaps we don't look much like Commanders in a secret organization either. A clever disguise.

I remember this as the summer of what was to become generally known as 'The Cherry Bomb Affair'. I don't believe that the affair is still under the wraps of top secret status (although I have not consulted the CiC in this regard), so let me recount here what happened.

The secret service boys, together at their aunt and uncle's house in San Lorenzo, had decided after some days of surveillance that the public restroom at the center of the large park/field at the back of the house was actually the headquarters of their arch enemy organization, Crush--an organization devoted to anarchy, communism, world domination, chaos, spawning mad scientists, doomsday machines, terrorists and who knows what all. The plan developed by the three Commanders was to sneak out in the dead of night and destroy the restroom/headquarters with a cherry bomb (a particularly loud firecracker).

In the daylight hours, the agents planned their mission and their route of escape, running the course so that they could do it in pitch dark with their eyes closed. In those days there were no great yellow lamps illuminating park areas. The plan was to light an elongated fuse for the bomb, then run like hell in the direction that would be least expected of saboteurs--away from, rather than toward, our house. Instead, we would cross the open ground at lightning speed (a physical ability possessed by all agents), attaining the fence at the far side of the field, leap over the fence, and then follow the railroad track back out of the immediate area and then leave the track for a circuitous route back home (or rather to our own headquarters complex).

The plan did not go quite as expected. For one thing, our explosives ignited far more quickly than anticipated. Chugging along at top agent speed, we were nonetheless surprised by the night splitting boom that echoed into the field and against the walls of the houses behind us. We reached the fence, scrambled over the top, and straightaway noticed a golf cart with a light on top buzzing determinedly in our direction. 

"Down!" Robert whispered, and so down we went on our stomachs in the gravelly dirt on the other side of the tracks as the golf cart (I mean the Crush armored reconnaissance vehicle) skimmed the inside of the chain link fence, flashlight (searchlight) scanning the tracks.

I will admit now, though ashamedly, to a distinctly un-agently sense of panic in this moment. Oh Lordy, we're in deep shit now.

Thankfully, this passed as the vehicle itself passed and rumbled away back toward the rubble of what had been Crush headquarters.

From there, as planned, we followed the tracks and reentered the neighborhood some ways away from home, setting out with relief toward safety. But there was one last glitch. As we followed the sidewalk route, a police car pulled up to the curb, an officer motioned for us to stop a moment. He had some questions.

Panic struck again as I imagined my parents coming to visit us in our cells, possibly having to bail us out. The Commander-in-Chief, however, handled the problem, according to his training, with expertise. We knew nothing about anything. We were just walking.

We were told, I think, that we had best just walk back home. And so we did. Mission accomplished. More or less.

Just for good measure, we bombed the thing again a couple nights later, inventing a delayed fuse by sticking the wick of the cherry bomb into one end of a cigarette (pilfered from my uncle's pack) and then lighting the other, making sure that the tobacco was getting enough air to keep the fire going. We were sleeping in three sleeping bags in my cousin's back yard, telling stories and goofing around till late at night, munching on the popcorn brought out by my aunt. We had decided that night that our fuse had failed. We fell asleep, planning to try again another day, and were abruptly awakened at some wee hour in the morning by a second resounding explosion. Lights went on all along the row of houses. Dogs barked. Mission accomplished. Again. And Crush wholly crippled for the time being.

In the morning, we found that the family cat had brought three dead rats and placed one beside each of our heads.

Ticky-tack? Was that his name?

Oh well, no matter. The cat was not involved, nor were his 'job well done' awards especially appreciated.  
 

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