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March 21, 2003 - 12:58 pm

The Time I Was In Handcuffs

Damn it! It just occurred to me that I left something out yesterday. I think Ebert may be in league with a certain shadowy figure around here. He�s a character that I refer to as the Old Man With Bruce Lee Hair.

I don�t have any direct evidence, and I�ve never seen them interact with my own eyes, but my reasons and logic are the very same we here in the U.S. use to connect Saddam and Bin Laden:

C�mon!

That oughta do it.

So. Heya.

There�s a possibility that today may be my last day at this here evil research lab. The people who run the Grammy�s are looking for someone and I may just fit the bill. I say �maybe� because they have to run a background check on everyone who comes to work for them. Turns out that a former temporary hire of theirs turned out not to be a temp at all, but instead an investigative reporter who wrote a big expose on them.

I�m told that the background check basically looks into whether one has a felonious past, previous jobs, addresses, etc. I�m fairly confident, having committed no felonies, that I�ll pass this invasive check easily. However�there is one thing that worries me:

The incident with the bomb.

In all fairness to me, it wasn�t my bomb. I mean, I didn�t build the thing and bring it to school. Believe me, though, when I say that details like that only go so far with the Chicago Police Department.

I�ll back up.

It was 1989. I was a bright eyed little freshman in high school. For most of that year, I was locker partners with a black kid named Darrel. Darrel was unpopular, so much so that even the fact that he was black did nothing for his coolness. He was ultra smart, wore thick, large glasses, and always dressed in corduroy. His choice of wardrobe earned him the nickname �Verrrt Verrrt,� for the sound that tight cords make when you walk.

Darrel was an outcast geek among black kids and white kids alike. I was a chubby dork who had recently shed himself of an unfortunate eighth grade mullet. We got along famously.

Darrel had more problems than bad haircuts and audible clothing, though. He hadn�t told me, but he was being beaten up and shaken down almost daily by a tall beefy sophomore. The only thing I had on this bully was the he still had his mullet.

One day, Darrel decided that enough was enough. He was going to get even, or at least defend himself. During 1st period Algebra, he revealed his master plan.

Darrel had built a bomb.

Like I said, Darrel was an intelligent guy, and he definitely had the science smarts necessary to make one. What makes it even more bizarrely impressive is that this was pre-internet.

He showed the bomb to me. It was a blue tube in a plastic baggie. Darrel told me that the next time the Bully tried to do anything, he would light the fuse and stuff it down the pants of his antagonist.

A plan with more flaws than one.

The end of the period came, and Darrel had the bomb out on his desk. No one knew what it was except me. As Darrel bent down to reach into his backpack, I snatched the bomb up and walked out of the classroom. I was trying to be noble, trying to keep anyone from having their crotch blown apart, trying to keep Darrel from getting into real trouble.

I went and put the thing in my locker and forgot all about it.

A few periods later, during drama class, a student sent by the principal�s office came in and told me that the disciplinarian wanted to see me.

The amazing part is, as I walked down that hallway, I wondered what this was all about.

In the disciplinarian�s office, I found a nervous looking Darrel and a man in a suit waiting. I was there because Darrel realized how incredibly dumb it was to bring a bomb to school and then lose your bomb. He promptly freaked out, told his homeroom teacher, and here we were.

Darrel and I were made to wait as the man in the suit, a detective for the Chicago Police, went off and examined the bomb. I�d been in trouble before, but never quite like this. I added it up: There was a bomb. At school. Police were here.

The clich� of people with their knees up, rocking back and forth? Not always just a clich�.

Eventually, the detective came back. He spoke to Darrel and I alone. He told us that the bomb Darrel had made was very good, and would have caused serious damage.

It was a toilet paper roll, covered in blue tape, filled with gunpowder and pieces of zipper for shrapnel.

Fortunately for us, the CPD had apparently sent the coolest, most understanding detective they had. He told us that he would put in his report that the bomb was a dud, and that we were just a couple of stupid kids fooling around. However, justice would have to be served, and this was still serious enough to warrant a disturbing the peace charge.

Ever been in handcuffs? I have. They aren�t comfortable.

We were cuffed by cops, and lead through the school hallways. I remember being so thankful that it was during class and not a passing period. Nonetheless, we were spotted by a gossipy, big mouthed girl who knew us named Eva, who erupted with a quick �Omigod!� I knew that everyone would know by the end of the day.

Surprisingly, it never helped my rep.

We were brought to the station at 26th & Halsted. Put in a holding cell for hours and made to wait. In an office surrounded by desk cops. They laughed at us and sold us candy bars through little holes in the cage.

My mom had to come down and get me out. I don�t remember her being particularly angry, or even much of what she said about it. I�m sure I was still pretty freaked out.

I�m also sure, though, that she didn�t enjoy the sight of her oldest son sitting in a cage for messing around with a bomb at high school.

In any case, I know we went to McDonalds after that.

I used to imagine how lucky I was that it happened when it did. It�s a good thing I hadn�t been born a few years later, and ended up in high school during the Columbine era. It�s even better that this didn�t happen after 9/11. We would have been national news.

Aha! A few hours have passed since I started writing this. Apparently, the Grammy people are either OK with or do not know of my explosive past.

Got the job.

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