I remember one summer night, we were just kids, running wild after the Fourth of July, thinking we were invincible—like a 9-year-old street gang, looking for trouble just to stay busy. I lived in Whittier on Ahmann Ave, right across from Gunn Park. It started out as the perfect place to raise a family, but before long, it became a divorce-ridden battleground. It was the first stage of Generation X making its mark, and it set the tone for what was to come. The place had its own charm—stucco homes, our address spray-painted on the curb, everyone doing their own lawn work—or maybe it was just the endless possibilities for trouble. Anyway, the summer heat was thick, and my friends, Craig, Kevin, and I, were up to something that definitely didn’t fall under the category of “normal kids’ activities.”
So there we were, nine years old, scavenging for firecrackers that didn’t go off. The fuse burned out, but they never exploded, leaving us with nothing but the hollow shells. We were like scavengers in a post-4th of July wasteland, picking through piles of debris, searching for any scrap we could turn into a little bit of chaos. The goal was simple: collect as many as we could. Then, come nightfall, we’d crack them open, exposing the gunpowder and fuse, and with a match or a lighter, we’d light the fuse and—voila!—we’d have ourselves a little mini-show. No big explosions, no risk of losing fingers, at least that’s what we thought.
Most of what we found were duds—little crackers, some leftover fireworks that didn’t go off. But then, in our search, we stumbled on something bigger. A massive rocket, the kind that shoots up into the sky with a big bang. It wasn’t lit yet, still had the fuse hanging off it, but here’s the kicker—it didn’t have the stick that normally keeps it upright for the launch. No stick, just a big, heavy rocket sitting there, ready to go. This was the jackpot. A dream find. We could’ve aimed it at the school, at the mean guy down the road, or maybe even his house. The possibilities were endless, and all it took was a little imagination from a few young troublemakers to come up with a plan that we could all agree on.
It was just Craig, Kevin, and me standing on the corner that night when a white and orange cat wandered up, looking for attention. Suddenly, all our light bulbs went off at once, and the idea hit us like a freight train. We had this rocket, about the size of a quarter and four inches long, and we had a volunteer astronaut—also known as the cat—and we had no clue what the hell we were really doing. But in our 9-year-old minds, the idea was golden, and we figured we might as well give it a shot.
The cat was just there, doing its thing, when we decided to name it “Cosmonaut.” The idea hit us like a flash—if the Russians could send a dog and a monkey into space, why not this cat? It was time for it to make history and join the club with its other, now rebranded “cosmonaut” friends. We weren’t exactly sure how we’d make it happen—we had no tape, no proper way to attach anything. But somehow, we were all thinking the same thing. And, just like that, we came up with a plan.
So, with the cosmonaut perched on Kevin’s lap, holding things steady, it was left to me to insert the rocket into our little willing astronaut. This was as raw as it gets—no lube, no spit, just instinct. A quick twist, a firm press forward, just the tip. It was like second nature, in my fucking DNA. With a little determination, the rocket started its journey. Yeah, I know, it sounds fucked up—and it was. But in that moment, we were laughing, thinking it was all just a stupid prank, something we’d get away with.
We didn’t really get it back then, the cruelty of the situation. The danger of infection from the cosmonaut’s claws—didn’t even cross our minds. And that goddamn cosmonaut cat? It wasn’t playing along. Not even a little bit. I don’t blame it. Eyes wide as saucers, it screeched like a banshee, claws digging in like it was trying to tear its way out of hell itself. Kevin? Poor bastard had his arm shredded, blood running down his leg like it was some kind of horror show. Craig jumping out of the way of each swip as he was holding the tail up while the cosmonaut swiping at him, like it knew we were the enemy. There was no joy in any of this. But we had a job to do. A show to put on.
We pushed it in, trying to get it in deep, trying to light the damn thing, our little hands fumbling with the fuse like we were working on something monumental. And when the fuse finally sparked, the cat went fucking wild. It lunged out of Kevin’s grip, running across the street like a bronco trying to buck off a rider, its body jerking with every step as the smoke trailed behind it. I can still hear the screeching in my head, the panic, the noise that made the whole thing feel like we were on the edge of something big.
But it wasn’t the explosion we expected—not at first. No, this time it was the anticipation, the way the smoke from the fuse curled after the cosmonaut, making it frantic. The poor thing, it was hopping around, trying to shake out whatever the hell we’d crammed up its ass. It knew something was coming, and it was working overtime, jumping and wriggling, like it had a chance to escape. We just stood there, eyes wide, helpless and a little afraid of what was about to unfold. The fuse burned faster, and our cosmonaut kept leaping, its frantic energy building.
Then, as if it had somehow flicked the rocket popped out of its ass, the fuse sparked. The rocket went off like a bat out of hell, shooting into the air with a roar, leaving a trail of smoke behind it. There was a huge boom, a noise so loud and sudden, I swear it lit up the night sky like something out of a damn movie. The whole damn thing felt like it was happening in slow motion, but also too fast to fully comprehend. It was chaos, beautiful and terrifying in the same breath.
The rocket exploded close enough that we felt the shockwave hit us like a slap to the face. For a split second, everything went silent, and then the air was thick with the smell of gunpowder. Our cosmonaut, somehow, had made it to the tree line—traumatized but alive. It didn’t blow up in the blast, but you could tell it was feeling that burn long after. It took off like a bat out of hell, running wild and fast, probably wondering what kind of hell it had just stumbled into, and why it ever crossed paths with three stupid kids and a firecracker.
We never saw our cosmonaut again. Not sure if it skulked off in shame or just died somewhere, but I like to think wherever it ended up, it was treated like a damn hero—at least for giving it a shot, for trying to be the first cat to travel into space. It wasn’t its fault we didn’t have the right tools or a proper launch pad. Hell, the poor thing didn’t even sign up for this shit.
But that moment? That moment stuck with me. You can’t shake memories like that—the ones that are so fucked up, so absurd, that you can’t help but laugh at how crazy everything was. The stupidity. The chaos. Were we psychopaths? Potential axe murderers? Or just normal boys doing what was natural?
Looking back, I think that’s when I learned that some of the best memories in life aren’t planned or structured—they’re uncharted, random chaos, trusting in the universe to steer you somewhere interesting. It’s not about following rules, ticking off boxes, or doing shit the “right way.” Hell, over half of you reading this are probably already triggered, writing to PETA or some other nonsense. (Go fuck yourselves.)
But, seriously, at a young age, these moments—chaotic, absurd, and raw—started to shape me. It’s about diving in headfirst, embracing the chaos, and laughing when everything falls apart. Maybe that’s why I do the things I do now—why I chase the mess, let the world burn. Because at least when everything’s on fire, at least when it’s all crumbling around me, I know I’m still alive.
Life’s a firecracker. Sometimes it explodes. Sometimes it fizzles. But when it’s good? It’s a fucking show. And that’s what I’m here for.
