Remembering a head injury

And then there was the time we put firecrackers in a mailbox and wound up in the emergency room. Years ago, I used to have a summer friend: Gregg Manglaris. His parents were divorced, and he and his older brother, Chris, lived full-time with their mom in Port Richey, FL, and spent the summers here in Elk Grove. Gregg was cousins with our neighbor, Michelle, which is how I got to meet him.

Gregg and I hung out all of the time. We played video games together, we worked odd jobs together, we went to the mall together, we did summer things. One day, Gregg got the idea to light some firecrackers and put them in some unsuspecting family's mailbox and drive away. He was almost two years older than me, so I went along with most of what he suggested. Plus, he was driving, and he had the paraphernalia.

The plan was not really thought out. We pulled up to a random house, and Gregg opened the mailbox. Since neither of us smoked, we didn't have a lighter or matches. Gregg decided to use the car lighter. He pushed the silver circle in, and we waited. Moments later, the lighter popped out, its orange glow ready to ignite the wicks. Gregg lit the brick of firecrackers and tossed them into the box.

This is where the story goes wrong. Instead of punching the gas and getting out of the area, Gregg felts he needed to close the lid on the mailbox and put the cigarette lighter back into its spot near the car's ashtray.

BOOM! The brick exploded. All I saw was a flash and then I couldn't hear a thing. This was when Gregg decided it was time to leave. But not before the lid to the mailbox flew off, hitting Gregg in the head as it projected toward the car. The lid continued on its path, smashing through the back passenger side window of his dad's car. Blood immediately started pouring out from his head. We knew we needed to get to a hospital, and fast.

Except, I couldn't drive. I was only 14. Luckily the hospital was only a couple of miles away, so we took the chance and he drove us to the Emergency Room.

Parents needed to be called, stories needed to be made-up to cover for our wrong doings. We were good at deceiving our parents; we were teenagers.