Hand Grenades Lay Bare the Truth

When I first struck out for college, it was with my best friend by my side. Jason and I first met in seventh grade and bonded over a common interest in armored vehicles. With the crystalline clarity of hindsight, we were both just hopeless nerds. However, there resulted a rich friendship to rival that of the Biblical David and Jonathan.

That first year in the dorm at Ole Miss was indeed a memorable experience. Jason had met a guy from a nearby town at a track meet and struck up a friendship. As he was also attending Ole Miss and was in need of a roommate, we resolved to secure an extra-large three-man room in the corner of the dorm and enjoy a little extra space. It was an eminently logical choice.

Everybody Hates a Bully

I have Jesus in my heart and ever strive to treat others the way I might wish to be treated. I have always considered myself to be one of the good guys in that regard. However, I might not be the easiest guy in the world to live with.

I’m a gun nerd. I can’t help it. I came from the factory that way. I’m not violent, and I don’t hunt, though I have no quarrel with those who do. However, for as long as I can remember, I have been inexplicably fascinated with weapons. I’m also an unrepentant slob. I brought those two curious afflictions along with me to college.

Now, understand, it was a very different time. I also sincerely hope the statute of limitations has expired. I now freely admit to having kept a gun or three secured in a footlocker at the end of my bed in the dorm room. I also adorned my study desk with a GI-issue M67 hand grenade.

This frag grenade had begun life as the practice sort, replete with an operational spring-loaded striker, spoon and pin. I subsequently painted and stenciled the thing to make it look just like the real deal, even in good light. I have no idea why. I just thought it was cool.

The Victim

We shall call our third roommate Doug. Doug was the nicest sort of guy. However, he was a snappy dresser with a taste for the ladies for whom such martial trappings were completely foreign. He tolerated the ordnance and my tendencies toward clutter with good humor and patience. Then one day, he came home from class to find Jason and me deep in conversation. I was also absentmindedly fiddling with my hand grenade.

“I wish you wouldn’t keep stuff like that in the room,” Doug said as he dropped his book bag alongside his bed. “Eventually somebody is going to get hurt.”

I looked at Jason. Jason looked at me. This seemed a fine time for a little on-the-spot training in the finer points of antipersonnel weapons.

Turning to face Doug, I took the grenade in my left hand and explained, “Doug, brother, there’s absolutely nothing to be afraid of so long as you pay attention to a few basic safety rules. In the case of hand grenades, so long as you keep your thumb over the spoon, you can even remove the pin and still find the device to be perfectly safe.”

I then securely grasped the little bomb and twisted the safety pin free with some modest difficulty. Now I had Doug’s undivided attention.

“Put that back, Will. I’m serious,” he said. “This isn’t funny anymore.”

Rising to the occasion, I held the grenade up so Doug could see it clearly and shook it back and forth, ostensibly to demonstrate the innate effectiveness of the device’s well-reasoned safety features. Feigning both shock and surprise, I then let the compact explosive device slip from my grasp. It bounced heavily on the floor as the spoon flipped off with a definitive snap. Jason screamed as if he were about to meet his maker. I recoiled in horror.

Doug levitated as though he had been electrocuted. He stepped first on Jason’s bed, followed by his own, and then mine, before charging into the hall. He slammed the door behind him.

Jason and I were reduced to fits of uncontrollable laughter. Convincing our roommate Doug that we had loosed a live hand grenade in the dorm room was the funniest thing either of us had ever experienced. Then, I realized that Doug had actually slammed the door, in his mind securing us inside a compact dorm room alongside a sputtering bomb. That realization was sobering to say the least.

Doug wandered back in, fairly sullen, about half an hour later. None of us ever spoke of the grenade incident again. Doug found himself a new roommate better suited to his personality the following semester, and went on to become a successful physician and family man. It seemed the whole sordid episode had actually laid bare Doug’s true feelings.

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