Page 40 - the NOISE March 2014

I grew up in a housing project in Astoria, New York — the eldest of my family’s four post-war kids. Saturday mornings, after a Cheerios or Wheaties breakfast, we’d plant ourselves in front of our 11-inch black-and-white TV set, then we’d argue over which TV show to watch. The twins and Annie gravitated towards Wonderama or Mickey Mouse Club and I’d fight for Roy Rogers or My Friend
Flicka or Sky King, the TV cowboy from Arizona.
When I lost the battle, which was often, I’d grab my next-door neighbor, Teddy, and we’d go
downstairs to Frankie’s apartment and plop down in front of Frankie’s much larger 17-inch Sylvania TV set for Sky King.
One morning, after Sky King, Frankie moseyed up to his TV set to switch channels. He stopped on one channel for a couple of seconds, and my eyes gravitated to a scientific-looking gentleman wearing a white laboratory coat. I said, “Hey Frankie, leave that channel on for a second!” The gentleman on the TV screen said in a very authoritative voice, “Now kids, if you try this at home, make sure your parents are helping you!”
Taking a set of goggles from the marble workbench in front of him, the gentleman covered his eyes and said, “Okay kids, now watch what happens when I pour water onto this mixture!” The camera slowly zoomed in, revealing a grayish pile of something on the workbench. We watched as a few drops of water fell onto the pile, then nothing — until the water began bubbling. Suddenly, a brilliant flash and vapor emanated from the pile! The pile got smaller and smaller as the smoke cloud drifted across the TV screen. Off-screen I heard people coughing. Then, the camera slowly panned to a smiling Mr. Wizard.
Mr. Wizard fed my developing interest in ‘mystical’ processes, as did the pow-wow campfire end- ing my two-week stay at Bear Mountain summer camp. The campfire began with a mysterious, magical ignition. Twenty-plus of us kids were sitting around our final campfire. We sat on split-rail benches in a sprawling circle around a large pile of wood. The camp manager opened the cer- emony, giving special awards to various senior campers for excellence as swimmers or craft makers. Next, he motioned to one of the counselors to come forward. The counselor was fully dressed as an Indian Chief. Our Chief made several circuits around the pile of wood and raising his eyes to heaven, said, “Oh Great Spirit of our ancestors please give us fire from the sky to light our campfire.” Just as he finished his invocation, a slight hissing sound turned into a roar and flames burst from the center of the woodpile. A moment later we were rewarded with a roaring campfire, and the Indian Chief took his place among us on the split-rail benches.
Some years later in early June, when I was a sixth-grade student at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel El- ementary School in Astoria, Queens, my buddies and I were in the schoolyard during recess. Some of the boys took out wooden tops from their pockets and began spinning them on the hard as- phalt surface of the playground. We were playing Skelzy — a game played in Queens and the surrounding boroughs of New York City. Skelzy, a quick game started and finished within the short recess period, began with a hand-drawn arena chalked onto any convenient asphalt surface. Play- ers made markers from soda or beer bottle caps, filling the caps with spent chewing gum or wax. The object of the game was simple: move your piece in sequence onto the “points” on the asphalt. Much like bocce, hitting and displacing another’s piece was allowed and was a good strategy.
I had a decided advantage with my piece, due to the small pebbles hidden inside. No one could see the extra weight beneath the spent Black Jack chewing gum I was fond of. I was able to place my piece with extraordinary accuracy. Other, lighter pieces, barely moved mine, and I could send an opponent’s piece flying. Because the rules of the game were vague, my piece was acceptable. The rules were capricious and changeable.
My fellow Skelzy players Johnnie L., Richie F., and Vinnie (who we called mousey because of his small stature) were a bunch of cut-ups, and we also tended to get into trouble together when our teacher, Sister Regina Gracia caught us misbehaving. Richie produced a couple of torpedoes from his pocket and threw one on the ground, aiming at the feet of Clara. As the small silver painted torpedo hit the ground in front of her, it exploded with a loud bang followed by an even louder
40 • MARCH 2014 • the NOISE arts & news • thenoise.us
shriek from the mouth of Clara. She backpedaled away and gave Richie such a dirty look. We all broke out in laughter.
“Hey Richie where did you get those torpedoes?” I asked. He said he’d gotten them from Bobby, who was somewhat of an entrepreneur and knew somebody from his neighborhood who would sell the illegal fire- works out of his basement. Richie produced one last torpedo and tossed it on the ground in front of us just as the bell rang. We all headed quickly back to class, with the exception of Louis who had a slight limp and he strayed behind us. Richie turned over his shoulder and snidely shouted to Louis: “Better get a move on! Don’t wanna be late!”
The rest of the class that day passed pretty unevent- fully, and we were excited, it being one less day before school would get out for summer. After school I walked over towards the bus stop and asked Richie what had happened to Louis.
He said that Louis, who lived in his neighborhood, was very wont to kick just about anything he saw in front of him on the sidewalk. Richie said the previ- ous summer his older brother had mixed up a batch of chemicals and had placed them into an old tin can which Louis was sure to come across. Well sure as hell that morning, Louis saw that can in front of him and couldn’t resist kicking it. That was his first mistake.
Richie and some of his friends including his older brother were sitting around the steps of the brown- stone they lived in as they watched Louis approach that potentially deadly tin can. Louis swung his left foot backwards and quickly forward until his Keds sneaker contacted the tin can. The can exploded and blew off the top of poor Louis’ sneaker ... He let out a loud yelp as
he hobbled back towards his house, a huge cloud of smoke marking the spot. At least that was the story that Richie told me, but I’m not sure how truthful he was, but it was certainly a good explana- tion as to why Louis walked with a limp.
I had received a AC Gilbert chemistry set the previous Christmas and performed most of the experiments in the book, such as making various colors of ink, making hydrogen gas and soap, but as any red-blooded young American kid growing up in the 50s was wont to do, I wanted to make some kind of explosive, the simple “bang” caps of the toy pistols we had just wasn’t loud enough. Not sure why kids do it but, but do it they will. So I asked Richie where his brother had gotten the chemicals from. He said he had gotten them from a company in lower Manhattan but he didn’t know the name of the company, nor the address.
It didn’t look as though I’d be able to get the chemicals I needed, but then fate stepped in. I used to spend afternoons after school in the local Boys Club. One day when the pool was closed for maintenance, I went to the clubs’ library and picked up a copy of Boys Life. I breezed through the magazine, not really reading it as it contained few articles of interest to me. I put the magazine back in the rack and happened to spot the current issue of Popular Mechanics. Here was something I was interested in, mainly the projects and practical objects one could make from common house- hold items. I spent over an hour on this one magazine.
One of the features of the monthly magazine was the classified ads section typically towards the front of the magazine. “BUY STAMPS WHOLESALE,” “ANY BOOK FOUND,” “MONEYMAKING OP- PORTUNITIES,” and “PETS” they verily shouted at us. But there in bold letters was a section entitled
“CHEMICALS AND LABORATORY EQUIPMENT.” Wow, I wonder if I can find out where that company was located. I carefully looked at every one of the ads, seeking a company located in New York City. The first few were located in Chicago, Los Angeles, and Detroit and so on but were of no use to me. I had to locate a local retailer of the precious chemicals ... But then I came upon a very small ad that said “CHEMICALS, ALL KINDS FOR THE AMATEUR AND PROFESSIONAL CHEMIST. WE SELL FROM AN OUNCE TO A POUND.” There it was, in black-and-white: “John H. Winn Company, Inc. 124 W. 23rd St. NYC.” Okay now, that’s in Manhattan! Now the question was: What kind of explosive am I gonna make? I decided I was going to try to make some gunpowder.
We had a set of encyclopedias at home that my mom had accumulated, one volume every two weeks as a premium for buying certain kinds of groceries at the local Keyfood store. The set con- sisted of about 18 faux leather bound books, published in 1930. The knowledge within, I surmised, still relevant. I looked up the section on explosives, and there in front of my eyes was the formula for Gunpowder!
Gunpowder: Gunpowder or more properly, Black Powder is an explosive thought to have been invented by the Chinese over 1000 years ago, mainly used in skyrockets and other types of fireworks. Some research has uncovered evidence that sets the Arabs as the true inventors. The historical use of this material in warfare was first attributed to the Arabs by the early 13th century. Roger Bacon, a Franciscan friar is often considered the first European to describe a mixture containing the essen- tial ingredients of gunpowder, and the first use as a weapon, in Europe, took place during the siege of Niebla in Spain. The classical formula consists of (approximately) 7 parts of Saltpetre, 1 part of sulfur and 2 parts of charcoal thoroughly mixed and milled to a consistent size appropriate to the desired application. The secret milling process was developed over many years of experimentation, with many failures and fatalities to the experimenters and unfortunate bystanders.
Wow! Saltpetre, charcoal and sulfur. It even had the proportions listed. I just had to get over to Manhattan and get the chemicals.
One of my friends from school also shared a fascination with chemistry and chemicals in general and so we decided we would go to Manhattan on Saturday to acquire the necessary chemicals. I took the Q-18 bus to Jack’s house and then we continued on foot to the nearby subway station
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