And I almost wasn’t fast enough. That explosion was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Or to be more accurate, heard. I didn’t actually see it. The shock wave hit me just about the time I was ten feet beyond the bridge abutment. It picked me up and carried me right into an oleander bush. I was laying on my face when the flatulent smell of burning fuel oil and incinerated flesh washed over. And then it was over. All that was left was the roar of flames just far enough away that I couldn’t see them, penetrated by screams of the few left alive. I pulled myself to my feet and ran. All the way home, I laughed and laughed. I though I’d die.

As it turned out, the old lady wasn’t as bad as people made her out to be. She was a whole lot worse. First, she took me through the maze of paths and pointed out every plant she owned. Like she expected me to memorize them just like that. Then, she put a paper bag in my hand and told me to put every single weed I pulled out of the ground into it.

I’d kind of had it in mind I’d be there for a half of an hour each day. Forty five minutes, tops. But every time I stood up to go, she’d tell me there was plenty more daylight left, and we shouldn’t let it go to waste. I had that bag full of weeds before she was ready to let me go. Considering there probably wasn’t more than a couple of weeds for every two thousand plants, that’s a lot more work than it should have been.

Then, when I finally thought I was going to get out of there,  she poured all of my work out onto the cobblestones and sorted through them. Three or four of them, she flipped to one side with a scowl.

"These,” she snarled, “are my beautiful plants. They are not weeds. You murdered them."

"Gee,” I replied. It wasn’t really the word that came to mind, but I didn’t want the old lady going back to my old man telling him I’d cussed at her. “I didn’t mean to. I guess I’m just not cut out for this kind of work after all.” Which was my way of telling her I’d enjoyed about as much of this shit as I could stand.

"Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll do better tomorrow."

The hell I will, I thought. There’s a shitload of ants in my front yard just waitin’ to be toasted by me and my magnifying glass.

“Yeah, right,” I said.

By the next afternoon, I’d just about forgotten about Mrs. Shawnee and her private jungle. Which is why I was stupid enough to saunter past her gate like I didn’t have a care in the world. She, however, hadn’t forgotten about me, and literally dragged me into her yard by the shirtsleeve. She put something that looked like King Kong’s back scratcher into my hand and told me to start training the soil. Like I knew what that meant.

She obviously picked up on that, and in moments, I found myself on all fours with her wrapped around me. In my wildest fantasies, I’d seen myself in this position with about half the girls in my class. But never - never - had Mrs. Shawnee invaded those intimate moments. Her grip around my wrist was about what I imagined the shackles in the dungeons to feel like. She was too old to be this strong. But her grip wasn’t half as strong as her breath. Unwashed dentures, stale medicine and too much tea filled my sinuses and I nearly gagged.

But I didn’t. Instead, I spent the next two hours scraping the mounds of soil underneath her precious plants. All the while, she was reminding me of the traumas I would endure if so much as a single leaf got bruised by my clumsy efforts. Finally, I’d had enough. I asked her if I could use her bathroom. Naturally, she scowled, but she said it was okay. I stood up, stretched my stiff muscles and walked through her front door, carefully wiping my feet before entering her private domain.

I don’t know exactly what I expected her house to be inside, but it sure wasn’t what I found. After seeing the almost demented passion she had for making sure not a single leaf was out of place in her garden, I expected her house to be the same. Instead, I found myself walking across a carpet that hadn’t seen a vacuum any time during my lifetime. Dirty dishes cluttered every flat surface in the room and most of them had gardens of their own growing out of them. I found the kitchen, and it was worse. I didn’t know a human being could own that many dishes. That a person could dirty them all was beyond me.

I decided she needed more than just my help in the garden. She needed my ultimate help. I opened the oven, gagged at the smell that issued forth, and blew out the pilot light. I did the same for three of the four burners. The fourth one didn’t work anyway. I’d noticed a candle in her living room, if you gave the term “living”  its absolute loosest definition. Then I left the house.

Smiling at Mrs. Shawnee as I past, I thanked her for her hospitality and told her I’d see her tomorrow. She scowled and didn’t bother to thank me. It was about an hour and a half later when the neighborhood rocked back on its heels. The blast was incredible. Much better than I expected. I was sitting on the front porch waiting for it. Her whole house erupted into a giant fireball. It was so hot it actually singed the hairs on my face and arms. But it was sure worth it. The neighborhood was talking about the tragedy of that accident for weeks.

Naturally, I was crushed. How could I not be, when half the neighborhood had been watching the growing friendship between me and the old lady. Dad asked me how I was doing, and I said it would be a lot better if I only had a friend. Of course I was still young and naive at the time. I actually expected him to get the hint.

However, instead of getting me a dog, he got me a membership at the local Boy’s Club. Like I could really put that to use. I had my choice of sweaty jocks stinking up the room after their basketball games, or a bunch of gutless nerds huddled over computer monitors. The TV’s in the lounge only showed PBS, ESPN and CNN. I guess the jerks who run these places have never heard of MTV.

So I never got my dog.

And I never had a friend.

For the longest time, I really didn’t think it bothered me. But I guess I must have been wrong. It was probably there all along, that simmering rage just beneath the surface. I know sometimes I could feel it more plainly that others. But I’m no different than anyone else. I never let it get the better of me. There’s that little spigot the brain has that keeps the emotions in check. I have a total lock on that spigot. Or at least I did until last week.

I don’t even remember how I got up on the roof of the Granger Building. It was a fantastic view, though. Get up there if you ever get a chance. You get a full panorama of  Central Park, but it’s not so far you can’t get a good look at the people. I actually recognized a few faces.

The thirty-odd-six used to be Dad’s. But he hadn’t needed it since the brake lines in his Oldsmobile suddenly gave up the ghost and he plastered himself into the side of a city bus at fifty miles an hour. I’d been practicing with it and was getting pretty good.

The only ones that interested me were the ones walking their dogs. I didn’t care about  anybody babysitting one of those little rodent creatures. I figured they were suffering enough. I just took out the ones with the real dogs that should have been mine. You know the kind. A German shepherd. Or maybe a collie. A dog that made you sit up and take notice when it barked.

All I ever really wanted was a dog. If you’d just buy me a dog, I could go home and be happy. So could you. I mean, you can’t possibly be comfortable in a stuffy old room like this. And think of the money you’re going to save your precious tax payers. I once read it cost nearly a thousand dollars a day to house a prisoner. What’s a good dog going to cost? A hundred bucks or so? Hell, I’ll settle for one out of the pound. Right about now, I can sympathize with the poor bastard.