If you love dark psychological thrillers, consider my debut, Eagle Bay: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C17XWN4Y
The unaltered iPhone photo above shows the skies near our home in Arizona during my wife’s bocce ball finals!
I’ve been writing and editing my evolving work of fiction, Doheny Drive. Read the first still-being-edited chapter below and tell me what you think!
Cheers from the Sonoran Desert, Ken Cruickshank
Part I
Chapter 1
Eleven rambling single-story residences on half-acre lots lined Doheny Drive, a dead-end street with a large cul-de-sac nestled on gently sloping hills in Orange County. Homes on the street had been built in the mid-60s, and some offered distant panoramic views of the shimmering Pacific. Towering eucalyptus, pine, and palm trees appeared to be standing guard over the scenic neighborhood. Yards accented with blossoming lantanas, birds of paradise, and rose gardens provided colors and fragrances that stirred one’s senses in pleasing ways. There were uncomfortable geopolitical issues contrasting life on Doheny Drive in 1972, but most youngsters lived obliviously and focused on more pressing matters.
Twelve-year-old Peter Birch could pee further from a standing position than any kid or teenager in the neighborhood. He told his friends he was born with quick-twitch peter muscles, which he assumed were stronger than those of other guys living on Doheny. He also claimed he had perfected the unbeatable technique, which he enthusiastically demonstrated before or after any competition. Despite several rivals employing his methods, Peter remained undefeated. The high schoolers he’d regularly beaten bowed to a true champion and nicknamed him Pistol Pete.
One of his two best buddies couldn’t accept defeat.
“I’m doing everything you said to do, Peter. It just doesn’t work, and there’s no way your pee muscles are stronger than mine,” said Andy Crenshaw. “I can throw an orange further, beat you in every Ice Cream Social race, and kick your butt at any other competition. None of your muscles are stronger than mine, so you must be holding something back.”
“Geez, don’t get mad at me. It’s always like this after I beat you. I’ve shown you how to do it!” argued Peter. “You need to chill, man. You sound like you’re super pissed off.”
“Pissed off!” laughed Tommy Kawasaki. “Andy’s p-p-pissed because Pistol Pete whizzed further than him once again! That’s f-f-funny as hell.” Tommy had stuttered for as long as anyone on Doheny Drive could remember, but there was an unspoken pact on the street—no one teases their beloved neighbor about his condition.
“Shut your pie hole, Tommy,” said Andy. “It’s true. Anything Peter can do, I can do better. Everyone knows that. You know that.”
Tommy laughed so hard it was hard to breathe. He struggled to release what he knew would be an inciting volley. “Sorry, but I d-d-don’t know that! Peter can pee eleven feet, four inches! You barely reached s-s-seven feet. Not even close!”
“Moron!” said Andy. “If you don’t stop laughing, Tommy, I’ll toss a coffee can of pee soup at your feet!”
Tommy chortled even louder while grabbing his stomach, which spasmed and delivered something close to agony. He rolled onto the ground, barely able to speak, caking himself in dirt and on the verge of wetting his Levi’s. “N-n-no problem, I’ll just make sure I’m seven feet one inch away!”
And that was the final word. Andy furrowed his brows and wrinkled his forehead, glaring intensely at Tommy. But he couldn’t sustain the scowl. His expression morphed from resentment to disapproval before, finally, amusement and recognition of the three friends’ special camaraderie. Then he howled like the others while buckling over. “I can’t believe we just argued over who could pee furthest!”
“You can’t? It happens every few months,” said Peter. “It’s the only thing I can beat you at, Andy. You’re the best athlete on the street by far. Maybe the best in Orange County. My dad says he’s never seen a twelve-year-old jock as good as you.” After pulling out a stick of Wrigley’s Spearmint using his teeth, he added, “I’d much rather be able to throw a baseball a million miles an hour than pee a solid stream eleven feet.”
“And f-f-four inches,” Tommy added gleefully, a comment triggering another fit of pain-inducing laughter among the trio. After things settled, he asked Peter, “Can I have a stick of your gum?”
“Me too?” said Andy. “Hey, Tommy, I wasn’t really going to drench your feet with a can of pee soup. I’ve never even heard of pee soup. But it’s a stellar threat.”
“We’ll never forget it,” replied Peter as he extended his Wrigley’s. “Andy, the funniest part is you’re so competitive you don’t like to lose at anything, and you hardly ever do. Just let me be Pistol Pete the pee-for-distance king for a while because I know you’ll eventually beat me at this, too.” A giant grasshopper helicoptered around them, landing in the weeds a few feet away. Peter shot spearmint-flavored spittle at him, missing a target that promptly flew away.
Because he hadn’t participated in the competition, Tommy decided it was time to relieve himself. He stepped toward a fence and drained cherry Kool-Aid onto redwood panels. Admiring his work, he said, “Hey, the stains on the f-f-fence remind me of the cover of the Who’s Next album.”
Andy agreed, then placed an arm over Peter and Tommy’s shoulders and said, “Cheers, young American blokes, my name is Roger Daltrey, and I love to piss on English countryside monuments with my bandmates.” They chuckled and stepped from the corner of Andy’s backyard. After hearing the high-pitched squealing of school bus brakes, they raced to the sideyard that provided a hidden view of the bus and the creature sitting aboard it.
Due to band practice, the special passenger took the later bus home this time of year. They watched her shrug her backpack for comfort as she stepped off the big yellow and black vehicle that spewed a cloud of putrid exhaust. Then they considered their good fortune of living on Doheny Drive, the only street in Orange County graced by Laurie Penrose, the prettiest, friendliest, and most excellent girl ever to walk the earth. Thick yellow-golden hair that fell to her waist. Green eyes that one had to see to believe. A fellow twelve-year-old who dominated their psyches most days and every night.
“Hi, Peter, Andy, and Tommy. Isn’t this a beautiful day? I counted nineteen large butterflies on the way here. Eleven monarchs and eight Western tiger swallowtails.” She strolled toward her home but kept speaking. “Do you boys like butterflies?”
Andy whispered to his buddies, “Sure, I like to feed the small ones to praying mantises. They eat their heads first.” Tommy punched him in the ribs, and Peter flashed the intense stare of an assassin. Andy glared back.
“I’m sorry, Andy, I couldn’t hear you.” She stopped and turned to face them; the strands of her long locks shifted gently amid a slight breeze. Even her elongated shadow was beautiful. Mesmerized and silent, someone needed to respond.
Peter stammered, “Butterflies are some of the most incredible creatures on earth. I think God put them here to remind us of the beauty surrounding us every day and to be thankful. There is nothing more gorgeous than a butterfly.” He turned to his friends and nodded with a glowing smile, impressed by his impromptu skills at answering a tricky question from the most wonderful girl in California.
In a low monotone voice, Andy muttered, “Gorgeous? Who the heck says gorgeous?”
After hesitating, Tommy stepped forward purposefully. “Laurie, you are even more beautiful and p-p-prettier and g-g-gorgeouser than butterflies. And nicer than butterflies, too.” He was suddenly filled with dread; had he really spoken such incredibly lame words that might lead to a lifetime of well-deserved ridicule and isolation? He stuttered loudly, “I m-m-mean . . .”
“Why, Tommy Kawasaki, I don’t think I’ll ever forget you speaking such lovely words. And I’m pleased you share my passion for butterflies, Peter. I need to get home, boys. My dad doesn’t like it when I’m even a little bit late. Have a wonderful rest of your day.”
She turned and walked toward her rambling classic West Coast ranch house in the cul-de-sac. The three best friends tracked every graceful step until she stepped over the curb onto her front lawn.
Andy glared at Tommy. “You can’t be nicer than a butterfly. And gorgeouser is not a word. That was so stupid; I think I got dumber just hearing it. I hope my brain isn’t permanently messed up. It might take my whole life to forget what you just said.” He pulled out his yo-yo and began “walking the dog.”
“Andy, no one cares if you do or don’t forget it,” Peter said. “Laurie said they were ‘lovely words,’ and that’s the only thing that matters. Holy cow, Tommy, you sounded like a movie star. I could never have done that. I might be jealous forever.”
“Thanks, man,” said Tommy, slowly shaking his head in awe. “Something inside m-m-made me do it. And afterward, I couldn’t believe it. I’m s-s-so happy. But you guys aren’t going to tell anyone, r-r-right?”
Andy put his arm around Tommy’s shoulders. “Our lips are sealed forever. Dude, you said Laurie Penrose is more beautiful and prettier and gorgeouser than a butterfly. Wow—three words that mean the same thing, but they sounded cool when you said them.”
“Really, Andy? You aren’t messing with me? A minute ago, you said I sounded super dumb.”
“I’m not messing with you. I’m jealous, like Peter. You probably sounded like Ryan O’Neal in Love Story—I’ve never seen the movie. I didn’t mean it when I said your words were stupid.”
Judging Andy’s words genuine, Tommy smiled. “You guys are the b-b-best friends ever.”
Peter spoke, and his gum shot out of his mouth onto the hot asphalt. He picked it up and popped it back in as if nothing had happened. “Andy, you were going to tell Laurie that you like to feed small butterflies to praying mantises who eat their heads first. You are so, so lucky she didn’t hear you. She might have cried.”
“Oh, come on, I’m not the only one who feeds butterflies to praying mantises. You guys have done that, right?”
Tommy said, “I didn’t even know praying mantises ate b-b-butterflies. I doubt they taste good.”
“Are you kidding me? Coyotes eat all the small animals in the neighborhood—do you think skunk or roadkill possum meat tastes good? Nature isn’t all about gourmet dining on Big Macs, fries, and root beer. So what if I hold butterflies close to hungry praying mantises that chow down on them for dinner? I know you’ve done it, too.”
“Eaten butterflies?” asked Peter.
Andy shook his head vigorously. “No, nimrod. I bet you guys have also fed bugs to praying mantises. I’m not the only one doing it—no way.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” said Tommy. “What p-p-place are the Angels in?”
They walked down the street in their jeans, tee-shirts, and Vans, discussing Nolan Ryan’s fastball, tarantula hawk wasps, and what their moms might serve for dinner. But later, their private contemplations returned to the human being they each considered the most remarkable girl alive.
Chapter 2
Tommy’s mother, Lois Kawasaki, was the principal organizer of 1972’s Fourth of July neighborhood block party, one of Doheny Drive’s most anticipated annual events. Grilled Oscar Meyer wieners, barbecued burgers, root beer floats in frosted mugs, nut-covered drumsticks, and cotton candy from a rented machine were always gratifyingly consumed by the forty-two offspring living on Doheny. Mrs. Kawasaki’s brother-in-law worked for Walt Disney Studios in film production, and rumors swirled that he planned to bring original theater reels of either Snowball Express, Bedknobs and Broomsticks, or the much-anticipated World’s Greatest Athlete. The three rising seventh graders were certain Mary Poppins, one of the featured films the previous three years, would finally get put out to pasture. A movie about an umbrella lady was no longer appropriate cinematic entertainment for mature young men named Andy, Tommy, and Peter.
The three pals lived enamored of Laurie but would never admit it. They presumed everyone else who’d met her was similarly infatuated. Days before the Independence Day celebration, each of the Doheny boys privately strategized how to gain inordinate time with Laurie during the neighborhood bash. Peter surmised a surefire tactic was to broach topics she favored—like butterflies, flowers, or art. For two weeks, he studied everything he could find that might make him appear deep and intellectual about colorful flying insects and California flora. The plan was to engage her in a discussion about her ardent interests while astutely guiding her to the Kawasakis’ for movie time, then suggesting they sit together for the show. Ninety minutes next to Laurie Penrose, affording even the remotest possibility of nudging part of his shoulder or elbow against her body, was a thrilling prospect.
Just after lunch, Mrs. Kawasaki announced the first movie of this year’s double feature would start in fifteen minutes, then she gleefully proclaimed its title: Mary Poppins. Peter shook his head with a face scrunched up in annoyance, recalling his complaint to Andy days earlier that he’d watched the stupid movie seven times during his life—more than half the number of years he’d existed. Watching it again might fry his brain. To alleviate his disappointment, he filled his head with images of sitting beside Laurie, which infused his psyche with optimism and wonder.
Peter approached Laurie while she was unaccompanied in a neighbor’s yard and stuck to her hip like a magnet as they strolled about, then he proposed they head to the Kawasakis’ theater-in-a-home. He gave her several minutes of unyielding attention before employing his can’t-miss move—a discussion about monarch migration patterns. But that was just Phase One. After wowing her with his encyclopedic knowledge of her favorite butterflies, he’d declare his profound intrigue with California golden poppies that bloomed on Saddleback Mountain every springtime. Butterflies and flowers! He’d devised the perfect strategy to impress her while slyly nabbing a seat beside her for the movie—sorry, Tommy and Andy.
He and Laurie crossed a neighbor’s lawn where high school boys with shoulder-length hair and short-sleeved paisley shirts were throwing lawn darts. Peter heard the teenagers debate whether the heavy metal tips of the popular darts being tossed would cause severe brain damage if they dropped on your head from a height of thirty feet. The high school girls appeared disinterested in conversations about injuries and potential death; they instead chatted about Led Zeppelin, Neil Young, and Elton John. No one younger than fifteen was allowed to hang out with the dart throwers and boss chicks; they considered the three inseparable boys ignorant and literally unnecessary.
Just as Peter and Laurie strolled past some neighbor’s orange Schwinn with its banana seat lying on the lawn, he initiated Phase One. “What a stellar party.”
“I agree, the best.”
He strained to arrange his rehearsed lines, then cleared his throat. “Laurie, did you know that many of the monarch butterflies in California travel here from the Rocky Mountains? And that a portion of them fly south to Mexico for the winter? I’ve always thought that was super interesting.” He just needed her to believe he was similarly intrigued by the colorful insects.
“Yes, I did know that. Most people have no idea, so I’m pleasantly surprised you do.”
Oh my gosh! She thinks I’m smart and fascinating! This is off to a great start. I’ll skip the California golden poppies bit and stick to butterflies. Remembering she also liked to count Western tiger swallowtails on her way home from school, he grew bold, assuming their habits mimicked the monarchs. After all, the two butterflies were about the same size and hung out together on the lantana in his backyard. “I also read that the Western tiger swallowtails follow the monarchs to Mexico until they return to California as one big group.” Come on, universe, score me some serious points for my terrific follow-up.
She stared into his eyes, appearing confused. “Really? I had no idea. I’m a bit surprised because adult swallowtails only live for a few weeks, and I’ve never seen photos of them overwintering in Mexico with monarchs. Where did you see that? Could you share the article?”
He wondered if he’d completely blown it and told himself to think creatively and brilliantly, like Einstein. “Um, well, I saw pictures in National Geographic magazines. My parents have a subscription, and a new copy arrives every month. They’re filled with really cool stuff.” She’s on to me; that’s why she’s staring even harder now. I look guilty. Has she already figured out the “really cool stuff” I’m referring to, that I spend way too much studying, are actually photos of beautiful, bare-breasted African women? Gawd, I’m an idiot. She might look through her parents’ National Geographics for insights into Western swallowtail migratory patterns. But what she’ll find are the boobs I’m obsessed with. Peter Birch, this will ruin any chance of a future with Laurie Penrose. Yep, for sure, you’ve totally blown it.
“This is super interesting. Maybe after the movie you can show me the article. We could flip through the pages together.” She smiled her incredible smile, and Peter wondered if he should bolt and disappear, like, forever. How was he going to undo this web of deceit?
He replied with an inexplicably higher-pitched voice. “Why don’t we head inside to watch the movie, Laurie? I’ve never seen Mary Poppins.” He grinned, thankful she was unaware he’d seen it seven times. As they entered the great room, Mr. Kawasaki asked Peter for help moving chairs, which he considered a welcome diversion, providing time to devise a way out of his lying about the National Geographic Magazine research predicament. He hoped his eagerness to assist Tommy’s dad might impress Laurie.
When Peter returned, he found Tommy and Laurie sitting together just as the film clicked and wound its way through the projector. Laurie smiled and patted the other open seat next to her, but when Peter moved in that direction, Andy appeared out of nowhere and plopped down with a big smile and a wink in his friend’s direction. Then came the words that surely tarnished his reputation forever. “No big deal, Peter, you’ve watched Mary Poppins seven times.” Half the audience turned and stared.
Laurie peered up at Peter with an expression of surprise, but she formed her trademark beam to alleviate his embarrassment. After taking a seat on the edge of the back row, he considered his National Geographic blunder. He figured it was inevitable that, from that day forward, whenever he heard someone mention Western tiger swallowtails or the migratory patterns of monarch butterflies, his first guilt-induced thoughts would be images of the breasts of African tribeswomen.
Chapter 3
Though Tommy Kawasaki stuttered, he was far more famous for a very different habit. One of the first things young people said about Tommy was that he enjoyed lighting fuses and blowing things up. That propensity was strange because he wasn’t someone you’d pick out of a police lineup for excessively dabbling in pyrotechnic sciences. But by age twelve, he’d developed robust skills at transforming “safe and sane” fireworks into sophisticated explosive devices. One of his favorite creations was the appropriately named Buzz Bomb, which involved affixing wings to a powerful Mexican version of the Piccolo Pete and pinching the cylinder in just the right spot so that, after it spun and became airborne, the altered contraption would blow up at elevations he estimated to be twenty to twenty-five feet.
Sitting next to Laurie during the movie—he swore she smelled like strawberry soda—Tommy wasn’t just thinking about his good fortune in claiming an open seat next to the hippest girl in town; he was rehearsing the steps necessary to rig and ignite the greatest airborne incendiary device ever created: The Flying Line of Buzz Bombs. Three of his modified Mexican Piccolo Petes affixed with wings were laid on pavement and strung together with fishing line. Their fuses were cut in lengths that ensured the two outer Buzz Bombs would take flight just before the middle cylinder, or fuselage, as Tommy preferred to call it, was ignited and emitted its multicolored thrust. It was a mind-bogglingly sophisticated flying apparatus to create, which gave him a great sense of pride. He was convinced no other soon-to-be seventh grader or even high schooler on the planet had the skills and moxie to design such a contraption.
Tommy’s creation included one final surprise for those lucky enough to witness history during its public unveiling. After the three connected Buzz Bombs rose above the enraptured crowd, a trailing bright red, giant-sized cherry bomb dangled tantalizingly with its fuse connected to The Flying Line of Buzz Bombs, prepared to deliver an epic fiery finale. Yes, yes, yes! hethought.
Laurie turned her head away from Mary Poppins. “Yes, what, Tommy?”
He was shocked back to the moment. “Yes, this is a g-g-great movie, isn’t it?”
“I’m enjoying it, but you appeared to be staring out that window when you mumbled yes, yes, yes.”
“Yeah, that was super freaky, man. Don’t do it again,” said Andy.
It was three o’clock, and the second movie of the double matinee was Snowball Express. After Laurie stated one film was enough for her, the boys heartily agreed, and the group moved outside. They assembled below a pepper tree with a thirty-foot canopy and a squirrel jumping limb to limb.
“Tommy disappeared,” Laurie said. “Is he hungry again? Half the time I see him, he’s munching on oatmeal cookies or brownies.”
Andy said, “You should add Hostess apple pies to that list. But I think he’s probably working on his latest firework invention, the Triple Buzzer, or something like that. The dude is addicted to gnarly things that fly, burn, or blow up.”
“That makes me nervous,” Laurie said. “He needs to make sure my dad’s not around if he’s going to do something dangerous. As a policeman, he learned of frightening accidents every Fourth of July. Can you tell Tommy?”
Andy and Peter glanced at each other and nodded. “Yeah, sure. We’ll tell him.”
In a private corner of the Kawasakis’ backyard, Tommy reviewed the checklist he’d jotted in his small spiral-bound notebook, where he kept instructions for his exhilarating custom-made inventions. High school and college kids preferred to watch the massive rockets imported from Tijuana, Mexico, that competed with Disneyland fireworks when they exploded. But those teenagers would never let seventh graders attend their aerial celebrations. That didn’t bother Tommy. His gadgets might not fly as high or make as much noise, but they were more sophisticated and required the steady hands of a genius to build and launch them.
After tugging on the fishing line connecting all three exploding Buzz Bombs, Tommy pulled out his tape measure and triple-checked the distance between the supersized Mexican Piccolo Petes that he’d reconfigured into Buzz Bomb fuselages. Check. Finally, he inspected the fuse and lines connected to the dangling cherry bomb. Check. The mad scientist’s grand finale would surely leave the masses in awe. He returned to the block party.
Upon reaching the cul-de-sac, he devoured two more hot dogs and three Ding Dongs, washing them down with orange-flavored Tang as darkness settled. He was tempted to strike a match to a package of Black Cat firecrackers wedged in his back pocket as a preamble to his upcoming production, but the better part of him said to hang tight. He noticed Laurie was holding one of the neighbor’s toddlers, and he wondered if his pyrotechnic wizardry might impress her enough to trigger dreams of them getting married and raising kids together. He shook his head and hoped she hadn’t telepathically intercepted his dimwit vision. But his lips curved into a hopeful smile.
Everyone could smell the Apollo Black Snakes set ablaze by enthralled kids who watched the snakes’ black bodies burn, grow, and twist, bringing joy to the elementary crowd. The skies turned darker, so sparklers were pulled from long, skinny boxes. Because some unlucky barefoot kid would inevitably step on a technically spent but still-hot metal sparkler every year, prompting certain mothers to exclaim how stupidly dangerous all the fireworks were, anyone under four feet tall was corralled onto grass on the Penroses’ front lawn.
Red Devil showering cones officially kicked off the main event, then came the Giant Bull’s Eye and Yankee Doodle Salute. Roman candles shot across front yards before spinning wheels of every size got nailed to trees and posts. Later, after all the legal fireworks were spent, families returned to their homes to watch episodes of The Streets of San Francisco or The Bob Newhart Show. The high school and the college kids had long before bolted for beach fires or Party Hill to marvel at screaming Mexican rockets. With their parents gone and the annoying younger kids ordered indoors, it was time for the big stuff. The bitchen stuff. Like custom-made spinning, flying, screaming, and exploding projectiles created by people with the guts to launch them. Enter Tommy Kawasaki.
“You feeling good about this?” Andy asked, with Peter at his side.
Tommy nodded and pointed at his creation lying on the darkened portion of the side driveway where no one was assembled and nothing would be discovered. “I’ve tested it eleven t-t-times over the past three weeks. The last two test flights, it worked p-p-perfectly. You’re in for a huge surprise.”
Andy said, “Does your sister know you still make these crazy things that fly and blow to pieces? I remember last year she almost tore your head off and swore to tell your parents if you didn’t stop.”
Tommy flashed irritation. “Valerie says that, but she d-d-doesn’t mean it. She digs that I’m brave enough to make this s-s-stuff. She thinks I’m smarter than most high schoolers on the street. I know she thinks I’m s-s-smarter than you.”
“If you say so. But it didn’t look like she was digging it at all last year.”
“Andy’s right,” Peter said. “Valerie screamed at all of us, even though you’re the only one who makes these stupid things.” He chuckled. “And, if she watches your Triple Bomb Job do something dangerous—”
“It’s c-c-called The Flying Line of Buzz Bombs!” Tommy barked incredulously.
“Whatever—you change the name every few days,” Andy said. “We can’t keep track. In a week it might be The Mangled Mess of Doheny Drive.”
“Very f-f-funny. Let’s see you build s-s-something like this.”
“No thanks,” Peter said. “I’d probably blow my hands off. Where do you make these things?”
“I don’t make; I b-b-build. Moms make chocolate cakes and brownies, but Wehner von Braun b-b-built rockets. I do all this in a corner of our backyard,” Tommy said. “And then I t-t-test them on the outdoor basketball courts at school, close to the t-t-tunnel, so I can escape if some idiot—like you two—calls the c-c-cops.”
Andy said, “Hey, it’s cool that you build these crazy things. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Wow, I didn’t know you guys were such w-w-wussies. Everything’s going to work perfectly. I c-c-can’t wait to see the smiles on your faces. And maybe even on Laurie’s.” He grinned and raised his brows.
“Oh crap,” Peter said. “I forgot. Laurie said to make sure her dad isn’t around if your invention is unsafe, and I’m pretty sure everyone on the street would say it’s unsafe. She seemed almost scared about you lighting any dangerous fireworks that might burn down a house or kill a neighbor. It’s safe enough, right?”.”
“Nobody’s g-g-going to die,” Tommy said. “Don’t freak out. It’s made of three Mexican Piccolo Petes and a cherry bomb—it’s not a nuclear bomb. Doheny Drive will be here in the m-m-morning.”
“Okay, cool,” Peter said. “Now that everything’s quiet out here and the parental units have split, is it time to test your Buzz Bug?”
He flashed annoyance at another incorrect moniker for his precious invention and left to pick up the final act. When he returned with a large brown paper bag holding his device, his expression had transformed into acute focus.
Laurie strolled up with the Johnson twins, eighth graders who lived in a corner house across from the Crenshaws. It didn’t surprise the boys that slightly older teens had embraced her. In the year and a half that Laurie had called California home, she’d earned the confidence and friendship of a wide swath of young people and adults. “I’m here to watch you launch the creation you’re so proud of, Tommy. I know it’s going to be amazing.” She smiled, and Tommy wanted to ask for her hand in marriage to get a leg up on his two less-worthy buddies. “And my dad is nowhere around.” She flashed a thumbs-up.
Tommy instructed the small crowd to stand back at least twenty feet. He pulled The Flying Line of Buzz Bombs from the bag and positioned it in the middle of the cul-de-sac. He spent several minutes arranging each fuselage and aligning the dangling cherry bomb. Confident that everything was precisely configured, he lit the primary fuse that would ignite the three fuselages and, eventually, the huge cherry bomb. He looked like Victor Frankenstein, ready to watch his creation take flight from only a few feet away.
“Tommy, move back,” yelled Andy.
Tommy irritatingly waved his arm without taking his eyes off The Flying Line of Buzz Bombs. “Calm down! It’s all g-g-good!”
Tommy’s invention took to the air. Ten feet off the ground, the powerful Mexican knockoff Piccolo Pete fuselages sent the Flying Line of Buzz Bombs into a spinning mania. While they lifted off as expected, the connected cylinders of explosive propellant suddenly turned sideways toward Tommy, descending quickly, with sparks and flames emitting from various parts of the whirling apparatus. Onlookers and a frozen Tommy waited for it to turn back to the skies, but instead, it flew straight at him, like a living organism with spindly arms attacking its prey.
Hank Penrosehad just stepped from his home to call Laurie in. He boltedacrosshis courtyard while everyone’s concern turned to panic. The Flying Line of Buzz Bombs wrapped around Tommy’s body and burned his midsection and arms. The cherry bomb and its fuse swung wildly before tightly binding to Tommy’s forearm. Mr. Penrose ran and lifted the boy, rushed to the closest lawn, and rolled to extinguish the incendiary components.
Then it happened. The Buzz Bombs blew up first. Because the explosive cylinders had wrapped around his legs and the back of his thick Levi’s, no major damage was done. However, the cherry bomb that had wound around the meat of Tommy’s forearm exploded next, and blood splattered onto him and Mr. Penrose, then gushed down his arm. It was a terrible, frightening sight. Peter and Andy stared at the gruesome injury, confused by Tommy’s seeming disregard for his injury, not understanding their buddy was consumed by shock.
Mr. Penrose pressed his bare palm into Tommy’s bleeding forearm. “Laurie!” he screamed. “Run inside and tell your mother to grab clean towels and one of my belts. Tell her to grab the keys to my car and to come to help me! Go, now!” Then the ex-cop looked at the other kids and screamed for them to get Tommy’s parents. “Tell them it’s an emergency!”
Dorothy Penrose soon rushed from her home and approached, stunned by the amount of blood on Hank and Tommy’s bodies. “Oh dear, Hank. He needs a doctor, and quickly.”
“I can’t let go of his wound!” Mr. Penrose yelled. He noticed his wife had smartly grabbed scissors before running outside. “Cut away all the tangled fishing line and smoldering shit from his body. Then fire up the Chevelle, Dorothy. I can’t let go of Tommy’s arm. You’re going to have to drive to the hospital like a bat out of hell.” It frightened Laurie to hear her father talk so abruptly and with a tinge of what sounded like real fear.
Dorothy Penrose ran over to her husband’s blue 1970 Chevelle COPA 427 and turned the key to the growling machine. Hank glanced again at the Kawasakis’ home, but though he’d seen a group of kids run in that direction, no adults were running back out. Tommy’s limp body lay draped over his arms as he squeezed the boy’s damaged forearm to stanch the bleeding. Dorothy revved the Chevelle as he approached. He stepped inside and barked, “Let’s go!” Hank sat with Tommy’s limp body, the boy’s damaged forearm squeezed tightly in his right hand.
Laurie watched the drama and grew traumatized. Rivulets poured from her eyes. She rushed forward and begged them to let her join them on the drive to the hospital, but Dorothy screamed, “No!” She told Laurie to find Tommy’s parents, explain what happened, and instruct them to rush to the Trabuco Hills Hospital emergency room. Laurie composed herself and dashed down the street, but not before yelling to a fading boy, “I love you, Tommy!”
Hank Penrose stared tenderly at Tommy as if he were his child, hugging him tightly while speaking consoling words to an unmoving boy he assumed was steeped in fear, or dying. Dorothy yelled at the kids in the cul-de-sac to move off the street. She put the car in reverse, burned rubber out of their driveway, and sped down the street with sounds and smells witnesses described as those made by The Snake and The Mongoose at the Orange County International Raceway dragstrip. It was a desperate, screeching departure that made Dorothy and Hank Penrose legends of Doheny Drive.
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