BOTTLE ROCKET SCIENCE – In The Line of Fireworks (Pyrotechnician)

Sparkling flecks of hot metal rain down on everyone inside the fallout zone. I protect my eyes and dash for cover. Some debris lands outside the yellow police caution tape, on a 4,000-strong crowd gathered to celebrate the fourth anniversary of the master planned community of Aliante in North Las Vegas.

This is not the sort of blast I intended to have during my day as a pyrotechnician.

Michael Prata, head of the Las Vegas office of Pyrotecnico, dashes in the opposite direction that I do -- toward the launching tubes, to manually deactivate the remaining Spanish candles before they fire.

I feel awful. I loaded those tubes this afternoon. I may have single-handedly transformed Nature Discovery Park into Baghdad.

"If found, do not handle. Contact local fire or police department."

It's seven hours earlier and I'm reading the label on the 4-inch mine that I'm lowering, by its fuse, into a mortar behind the tennis courts. It is the heaviest 1.5 pounds I have ever lifted.

If things go as planned, a computer will signal this device at the correct moment in the five-minute show. An electric match at the base will ignite the fuse and, a few thousandths of a second later, glittery purple-to-green stars will zoom 200 feet in the air.

If things don't go as planned, all future Fear and Loafing articles may have to be typed using my left hand only.

"You don't want to drop it," Prata says.

However, a cell phone battery or simple static-electric shock can yield the same tragic results, he casually explains. (Who knew running out of Bounce could be so life-threatening?)

Before taking me on, Prata was required to perform a background check. Any arson -- felony or misdemeanor -- would have disqualified me for the job. (Luckily, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms didn't know about that bush on the side of my parents' house that caught fire while I burned dried leaves with a magnifying glass.)

I also conducted my own background check on Prata. I Googled his name along with the word "accident" and nothing came up. In addition, I counted his fingers. They're all there.

What's not all there is his hearing. Prata cups his ears a lot, asking you to repeat yourself.

"Occupational hazard," he said earlier, explaining that he grew up around the industry. His high school pal came from the family that owned Pyro Spectaculars, the fireworks company famous for punctuating New York's Macy's 4th of July Spectacular.

"I didn't start doing it until I was 19," he said.

"Legally," he clarified.

As I lower the mine, my hand shakes enough to mix paint.

"You should never be nervous around pyro," Prata says. "You just want to respect it. And you want to know what can go wrong."

According to the Consumer Product Safety Commission, eight people died and 9,600 were treated in emergency rooms because of fireworks-related injuries in 2004 (the last year data is available). That's what can go wrong.

"Those are not professional injuries," Prata replies. "Those are little kids playing with fireworks."

True. However, my injury would not be considered professional, either. In addition, accidents can happen to anyone. In 1983, Jim Grucci, a member of the highly professional Grucci fireworks clan, was killed along with a co-worker when the family's New Jersey compound exploded for unknown reasons.

What makes the risk worth it for Prata, he says, is the fun and the money.

"I love going to different places," he said. "I love going to China every year to pick out product."

In addition, there's that $250 to $1,000 a day.

"But the highest-paying days are 40-hour, bloodbath-on-a-barge-in-the-middle-of-the-ocean situations," Prata said, "and you'd rather be home because you don't want to do the pyro for a celebrity's wedding."

The nuptials in question occurred while Prata worked for another company in California, which he refuses to name (along with the celebrity, who made him sign a confidentiality agreement).

"What I didn't realize was that the barge tow from Long Beach to the wedding was 16 hours in each direction," he says.

Prata moved from Rancho Cucamonga, Calif., three years ago, because he considers Las Vegas the fireworks capital of the United States (and because there are no barges here).

"There are fireworks, indoors and outdoors, every single night here," he said. ("Ka," Treasure Island and Steve Wyrick's show are just three examples.)

"Careful!" Prata warns as I stand over the mortar. "If you put part of your body over it and it fires, the product will shoot through you. So don't put anything over it that you wouldn't want to lose."

I only loaded the other device. This one, a series of three quarter-pound Spanish candles, I'm actually wiring -- alongside Prata's crew of five. And because of my wiring skills, the Surround Sound on my TV plays from only two of five channels.

"Make a 'W' and loop it around," Prata tells me.

Although pyrotechnicians in Nevada need an outdoor aerial license, no schooling is required. You learn pretty much like I am right now. However, there's no room for error in this trial. Everything has to be wired, loaded and aimed perfectly.

"If you did it right, all three of these will go at once," Prata says.

A pyrotechnician's day actually starts the previous day, when the fireworks are removed (carefully) from storage. (Prata will describe Pyrotecnico's location only as "30 miles from here.")

"Actually, the day begins several weeks earlier," Prata said, explaining that shows are scripted using $25,000 computers that sync displays to selected musical pieces.

"The process takes between six and 60 hours, depending on how intricate you want to go," he said.

"Stay here!" Prata shouts as he runs toward the Spanish candles to shut them off. (Doing so by computer would take longer.)

We're back in the firestorm, and I'm thinking about that brick-thick loose-leaf of safety guidelines Prata gave me that I promised to read and knew I wouldn't.

"Are you serious?" Prata asks me after the Spanish candles are deactivated. "Do you think that was your fault?"

The problem had nothing to do with improper loading or wiring. An unforeseen gust simply blew the fireworks back toward the ground.

"Wind is always a wild card," Prata says.

Minutes before the show, Prata's wind gauge read 10 to 12 mph, significantly below the worrying point of 15. So he and the North Las Vegas fire inspector agreed to proceed.

And fallout wasn't as bad as I thought, according to Prata.

"You totally overreacted," he says. "That happens all the time. No one was in any danger."

Apparently, it's called the fallout zone for a reason.

"And when one of the guys shooting the show screams and runs toward the audience," he says, "it doesn't exactly help convey a sense of safety."

View video of Levitan's day as a pyrotechnician at www.reviewjournal.com/columnists/levitan.html. Fear and Loafing runs Mondays in the Living section. Levitan's previous adventures are posted at fearandloafing.com.