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Compton, Califonia - 1956

A bankrupt dance hall took up the corner of Atlantic Avenue and  San Vincente Street. Cookacre ran behind the dance hall, now called the Free Gospel Church of Christ.

A year earlier the down-home-style Evangelical church bought the lease on the hall. It began its boisterous services a short time later. Two emergency exit doors opened at the rear of the hall. One was located near the corner of Cookacre and San Vincente. The second door was at the opposite end of the long building. One or both doors were opened for ventilation during the summer evening services.

I coasted across San Vincente, engine off and headlights out. I saw an open spot and guided the car against the curb. It was a little after nine o’clock and the neighborhood was pitch black. Someone had used a rock, BB or pellet gun to take out the streetlight.

The exit door nearest the corner was open. Dim gray moonlight, puddled by the shadows of a big eucalyptus tree and elephant ear plants, splashed the cracked and chipped sidewalk. Organ, accordion, banjo and tambourine music rolled like joyous thunder over the hot asphalt. The music hit the side of my car like a crasher wave slamming the shore of Manhattan Beach.

The air seemed to vibrate. The surging sound of shouting and stomping feet rapped on the side of my sweaty face. A painful pounding, in rhythm with the musical reverberations, drove a hot nail of pain between my eyes, pumping up the volume of my headache misery. A tiny voice of caution was screaming for my attention when Phil started laughing. Danny joined him. My booze altered mind wasn’t ready to listen to the tiny voice anyway.

“Hey, shut up, man. What the fuck’s the matter with you guys? Wanna get us caught?” I slapped at the back of the seat.

Danny and Phil crouched on the rear floorboards cracking up. They buried their faces in the seat cushion. I faced front and my snickers started. I found a deep hole on the far side of my brain and shoved the voice of caution and laughter inside.

“You assholes wanna do this or not?” I said, gaining control.

They couldn’t stop laughing and it pissed me off. “Can it, you fucking pricks. We’re gonna get caught if we keep fucking around.”

Phil and Danny calmed down. Phil took the wrapper off the firecrackers and twisted the fuses into a single tight string. I checked my book of matches. The night air was dead calm. We would only need one or two.

“Ready?” I looked them in the eye and they nodded, their lips pulled down in a tight line. I knew they were holding back their stupid laughter. I unscrewed the dome light bulb. Phil pushed the front seatback forward and jacked the door handle.

“Leave it open,” I whispered.

Phil winked. The three of us crossed the street and crawled up on the open doorway. Heat and fine wisps of blue smoke billowed through the open door. Overflowing tin ashtrays littered the hardwood flooring. From somewhere up front the amplified voice of the preacher screamed above the din of music, extolling his flock to a higher plane of frenzy.

People jumped from their metal chairs, some with cigarettes hanging from their lips. They stomped and clapped their hands to the music. The place reeked of sweat, cigarettes and the sweet smell of lilies and camellias. The preacher and his rowdy music bellowed in my ears.

We watched, awestruck, for a short time. The spell was broken when the music came to a halt. The preacher shouted, “Are you ready to be baptized in the name of the Lord, Jesus?” 

Phil held up the pack of firecrackers and pointed to the fuse. I shook my head and mouthed a silent, wait a minute.

People began to shuffle toward the front of the hall. We couldn’t see the stage from our vantage point, but from the look and sound of the moving crowd, the pastor was going to be busy for a while.

The organ began to play. The voice of the preacher shook the rafters. “Shout out sinners. Testify for the glory of the Lord. Do you accept the Lord Jesus as your Savior? Let me hear that testimony, sinner,” he screamed.

Someone at the front of the hall began to wail. The wail was cut off by a huge splashing sound. I fished the book of matches from my pocket and Phil held the packet of firecrackers steady.

I no sooner lit the fuse when Phil made a perfect throw. The firecrackers slid under the rearmost row of metal chairs where a few people remained seated.

We didn’t wait for results, but jumped to our feet and ran for the car. I never dreamed firecrackers could be so loud or go off so fast. The machine-gun explosions were deafening.

Screaming and chaos replaced riotous music and joyous shouts. I heard roars of anger that drowned out the screaming. Angry men boiled out of the doorway like fire ants from a distrubed nest.