Cherry Bombs Paper Route

Back in the summer of ‘74, I became the proud new owner of Ed Temple’s paper route. It wasn’t just any route; it was a sweet one.

DARK RECESSES

Billy

6/16/20253 min read

Cherry Bombs Paper Route

Back in the summer of ‘74, I became the proud new owner of Ed Temple’s paper route. It wasn’t just any route; it was a sweet one. Mostly clustered around the apartment complexes along Brody Boulevard, this route was a paperboy’s dream. You didn’t have to ride far, just zigzag through a bunch of buildings and toss papers like a boss.

Ed said, “You’re the man for this route, Billy.” And he wasn’t wrong. I had already been helping my brother on his route and even pitched in for a buddy on the next street over. So, I knew the ropes. The key was having a good bike my Schwinn Stingray, bright red with a banana seat, was perfect. I called it “The Crimson Rocket.”

That summer was hot, dry, and full of mischief.

One Saturday morning, I loaded up my canvas sacks, front and back, brimming with The Herald. The first complex on the route was a tall one, five stories high, maybe six. My friends Ed (yeah, the same Ed), Mikey, and Josh came along “to help,” which of course meant cracking jokes and trying to one-up each other in the Department of Dumb Ideas.

Somewhere around the fourth floor, Mikey pulls something out of his pocket, a cherry bomb.

Now, let me explain these things weren’t your average firecrackers. They were serious. About the size of a ping pong ball, bright red, and illegal as sin. We usually saved them for beach days, tossing them into the waves and cheering when the splash shot twenty feet high. But the sixth-floor balcony of an apartment building? That was a whole new kind of temptation.

I told Mikey, “Don’t be stupid.”

He grinned. “C’mon, Billy. Just one. It’ll be epic.”

Next thing I know, he lights it. Josh is giggling like a hyena. Ed’s already halfway down the stairs yelling, “RUN!”

I’m standing there like a chump with fifty pounds of newspaper strapped to my body, watching this stupid little red ball tumble six stories down like some cartoon bomb.

BOOM!

The sound echoed up through the stairwell, rattling windows and definitely waking up half the block. My ears rang. I didn’t move. If I left, someone might recognize me, and I’d lose the route. So, I played it cool, took the elevator down like I was just doing my job.

By the time I made it to the garage, I spotted my three genius friends near the back slope of the property, jumping around like maniacs.

There was a fire.

Not a tiny one either more like a 15-foot-wide blaze chewing through the dry grass, heading for the shrubs. Apparently, the cherry bomb had landed in just the right patch of summer-dried brush to become a full-blown inferno.

Somehow, don’t ask me how, Josh found a garden hose and was spraying it, while Mikey and Ed stomped at the edges with their sneakers like that was going to do anything. I stood there, frozen, watching the flames climb and twist like something alive.

Five minutes later, sirens.

A hook-and-ladder truck screeched into the lot, and firemen poured out like ants at a picnic. Hoses whipped through the air, water gushed, and just like that, it was over. Smoke rose from a big black scar on the hillside.

And then came the questions.

“What happened here?” a fireman barked.

Ed, cool as ever, said, “We were just standing here when this convertible drove by real slow. Dude tossed a Molotov cocktail right at us. Missed us, hit the brush.”

The fireman blinked. “A Molotov cocktail?”

“Yup. Convertible. Guy had shades on. Looked kinda Russian.”

They nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. The firemen exchanged a look but didn’t push it. “Well,” one said, “don’t let it happen again.”

We nodded solemnly like we’d just survived a war. They packed up, and we stared at each other. Then we burst out laughing.

Nobody ever questioned it again.

I kept the route for another year and never let Mikey near the sixth floor with anything explosive again.

But every time I rode my Stingray past that scorched patch of land, I smiled. That was the day the paper route almost burned down Brody Boulevard.

And I didn’t lose a single customer.