Classic Royko: He can dream, can’t he?

Editor’s note: Mike Royko grew up in Chicago in the 1930s and ’40s, a time when adults were more inclined to look the other way when young people played with fireworks. They should not have, of course — the danger was very real. But so was the fun, as Rokyo recalls in this column from July 8, 1968. We really must add: Don’t try this at home, kids.

It was early last Thursday morning and I heard a strange sound. It was Slats Grobnik’s voice. He was in front of the house yelling: “Yo, ho, ho . . . can you come out?”

He was on the sidewalk and he had a big brown paper bag in his arms. He pointed at it with one finger.

We met in the gangway a few minutes later.

He opened the bag. “Lookit,” he hissed.

“Wow,” I hissed.

There were Zebras by the package, and cherry bombs, torpedoes, and skyrockets, more Zebras, pinwheels, and other great stuff.

“Wherejagettum,” I hissed.

“Gynatruck cameroun’ sellnum,” he hissed.

“Boy,” I hissed.

“Let’s go,” he hissed, and we trotted quietly out of the gangway and into the alley.

He found an empty soup can.

Then he took a thick, stubby cherry bomb out of the bag and placed it on the ground. He put the can over it so just the wick stuck out.

He lit a punk with a match, then touched the punk to the cherry bomb wick. And jumped back.

The sound bounced off the garages and the houses. It rattled windows and shook porches. Mortar trickled from between bricks. Cats fled.

The can leaped at the sky, climbing higher than the garages, above the power lines, beyond the rooftops, almost disappearing in the clouds.

Then it fell slowly, clattering on the pavement.

Slats picked it up. The unopened end was puffed out, the inside scorched by the force of the explosion.

“Lookit,” he hissed.

“Boy,” I hissed.

“Let’s try it with a coffee can,” he hissed. We blew up the coffee can. Then we shot two juice cans at the same time.

Somebody came out on a back porch and shook his fist.

We tossed a Zebra firecracker into his yard, then turned and trotted quietly up the alley and into the street.

As we trotted, we tossed torpedoes against the brick walls of buildings, leaving a wave of explosions behind us.

“Torpedoes are just as loud as cherry bombs,” I shouted.

“No they’re not,” Slats shouted.

“Well, they’re as loud as Zebras,” I shouted.

“Yeah,” he shouted, banging one against the candy store wall.

“Don’t waste ’em,” Slats yelled, lighting one whole package of Zebras and tossing it on Mr. Yoboff’s porch.

“I won’t,” I yelled, dropping one whole package of Zebras into Mr. Lynch’s mailbox.

“They got to last all day,” Slats bellowed, laying out a row of torpedoes on the streetcar tracks.

“I know,” I bellowed, aiming a barrage of rockets at the school windows.

We trotted down the street, as the streetcar set off a chain of explosions and Lynch’s mailbox sailed into the yard and Mr. Yoboff’s porch trembled and three of six school windows suffered direct hits.

“This is more fun than I’ve had in years,” Slats howled.

“Me, too,” I howled.

Everybody was outside, shaking their fists.

We trotted faster. At the end of the street, on the corner, all the guys were waiting. They all had big brown paper bags.

We trotted faster. But we didn’t get any closer. All the guys started fading away, disappearing. Slats started disappearing.

It was last Thursday morning and I was awakened by a strange sound. It was the alarm clock. I listened for the “yo, ho ho, can you come out?” Nothing.

Ahhh, nuts.

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