"Are you sure it will work?"
"Yep." At that time in my life, I was sure everything would work. I was 15 years old, and self-confidence was a core competency, justified or otherwise.
Michael and I were on the way to our Friday afternoon Science Club meeting. "Science Club" was a bit of a misnomer: There was only middling science involved, and it was not so much a club as an excuse for me and my buddies to fool around. My parents, to the extent that they were aware of it at all, thought it was a supervised after-school activity. While I didn't lie to them, I did little to disabuse them of their misunderstanding. In 1957, anything associated with the word "science" had to be good.
"You thought the vodka would work," Michael said.
"It would have, if it had been stronger."
Michael was great to have around when we needed something, like tools from his father's workshop or liquor from their liquor cabinet. But he wasn't exactly the brains of our operation.
We approached the fort that served as our clubhouse. It was deep in the woods, and it gave us shelter from the elements and a retreat from prying eyes. The four of us had built it two summers ago, and we'd just finished a two story tree house above it the previous month.
"Who goes there?" called a voice from the observation deck on the tree house above.
"Just us, Alan," said Michael.
"What's the password?" asked Alan. As usual, he was into the lookout role a little too much.
"Vanguard!" said Michael. I winced. We'd have to change that password.
"You may proceed," said Alan, and he climbed down to the fort to meet us. Fred was there, too.
I called the meeting to order, and we dispensed with the news quickly. The news of the day was that the Vanguard rocket had blown up on the launch pad, so we were still behind the Russians in the space race. Fred announced he was going with Alan's sister, and we all gave him noogies. Then it was time for the day's business: Making rocket fuel.
"OK, what did everyone bring?" I asked. "I got the cigarette lighter and some firecracker fuse."
"I brought the hydrogen peroxide," said Alan. "My sister won't miss it."
"I have the beaker from my chemistry set," said Michael. "And some acetone to clean it with."
We all turned to look at Fred. He was a little different than the rest of us. He'd moved here from West Virginia just a few years ago, and had brought with him a few idiosyncrasies, but he was a loyal friend.
"I got me some moonshine!" he grinned, and held up a little glass mason jar. "Dad will never know."
"So, what's the plan?" asked Alan.
"We're going to test my rocket fuel recipe again," I told them. "Ethyl alcohol and hydrogen peroxide."
"What makes you think that will work this time?" asked Alan.
"The alcohol is purer. Moonshine is at least 85% alcohol," I said. I opened the jar and made a big show of sipping some of it. "Maybe 90%," I said, my eyes watering. I'd never tasted moonshine before. That stuff was good.
We cleaned the beaker with the acetone, and added equal parts of alcohol and hydrogen peroxide--just an ounce or two, total, for the first test.
Nothing happened.
"Nothing's happening," said Fred.
"Didn't expect it to," I said. "We have to light it, first."
"Then what will happen?"
"It'll burn really fast. But not in here. Let's move it to the observation deck."
I carried the beaker up the ladder to the tree house, and up the second ladder to the roof of the tree house. I set it down on the edge of the roof, put the firecracker fuse in, and then climbed down. "I need a long stick for the lighter," I said.
We got a long stick and tied the lighter to the end. I stood on the roof of the clubhouse, lit the cigarette lighter, and carefully lifted it up overhead to the fuse. We all watched as the fuse burned down to the surface of the liquid. A tiny, almost invisible flame started burning on the surface of my rocket fuel.
"Wow!" said Alan, sarcastically. "Some rocket fuel. It's almost as bright as a votive candle!"
I was disappointed, to say the least. We watched it for a little while, but the guys got bored.
"Who's up for a game of Monopoly?" asked Michael. The three of them were quickly engrossed in a game back inside the fort.
I stayed outside, watching the little flame, and sipped some more of the moonshine, just to make sure it was strong enough. I remember trying it a couple of times. Maybe three or four.
By then the flame had gone out, and I went back inside to watch the Monopoly marathon. Alan had the edge, as usual, but the other two kept missing his properties and landing on Free Parking.
I was in the middle of taking another evaluation sip of moonshine and contemplating my failure as a rocket scientist when I heard the biggest bang I'd ever heard in my life. The roof of the fort caved in, and Monopoly money fluttered everywhere. Ears ringing, the four of us crawled out from under the remains of the fort and looked around. The observation deck of the tree house was smashed to splinters, and leaves were fluttering down all around us from the neighboring trees. By some miracle, none of us had so much as a scratch. In an even bigger miracle, our parents never found out what happened. But that was the end of our rocket fuel experiments. We rebuilt the fort and the tree house, and had lots of other great adventures there, until a housing developer turned the woods into a subdivision.
But I'll always remember that particular day. It was special for two reasons. First, it marked the beginning of my career in fireworks and pyrotechnics. I design new shells and effects for Fireworks by Grucci now, and we do some good stuff, but nothing has ever been as loud as my failed rocket fuel explosion. And I can categorically state that you'll never find me making a peroxide of acetone, accidently or on purpose, ever again.
Second, it marked the beginning of my relationship with alcohol.
My name is Steven, and it's been 40 years since my last drink.