People were lining up for weeks at the local vendor of weapons of mass destruction. Patriots and pyros alike were waving sheafs of cash for Black Cats, Screaming Cracklers, and Nuclear Meltdowns, gearing up for an evening of gleeful mayhem. Fourth of July celebrations in our town exemplify free enterprise and democracy. Foregoing the 5-mile trek to the beach where officially sanctioned fireworks bloom in the sky, my neighbors usually prefer to vote with their feet by staying home and bootstrapping themselves into independence ecstasy. It's a blast.
The night of the Fourth, my street resembled one of James Natchwey's wartime snapshots. Rocket exhaust pocked the asphalt with black starbursts, salvos of Roman candles blew smoke and fire like muskets in a Civil War reenactment. As I drove around, pockets of revelers clustered around their ordnance of choice; they melted into the streetlight-stained smoke and reappeared behind me when I passed. Then, some mortar fire, or a bottle rocket, or a howitzer followed by smoldering shreds of paper and plastic falling from the sky and the lingering tang of cordite.
It's a far cry from that time in college when I went out into the woods with a bunch of friends and we spent the evening running around shooting fireworks at each other. Our attempt to split into two teams and play capture the flag degenerated into chaos a la Lord of the Flies. Imagine packs of camouflaged yahoos stumbling through a huge forest clearing, blinded by the dearth of light and wisdom, shooting bottle rockets from their hands. Eventually, silence and smoke hung acridly in the woods, our ammunition and energy spent. As we drove away, a fellow in the truck in front of me thrust his arm out the window, 9mm pistol in hand, and endangered any birds that may have been flying overhead by drunkenly celebrating his Second Amendment right. Crack! Crack! Crack!
Was I concerned last night that an errant missile might take out my '93 Ford Ranger? Nah. It's shrugged off worse. Like the best of Hollywood's character actors, the Ranger's body is pockmarked with personality after years of collisions with reality, which in the case of my truck, means everything from fire hydrants, concrete posts, and other vehicles. One fender has been replaced, and the entire front end is brand-new as of two years ago. I quietly relished the thought of a random M80 blasting a crater into my right fender, so that it would match the one in my left. Really, what's a body panel but yet another piece in a long line of replacement parts? Heck, I can use the practice.
Other vehicles in my neighborhood weren't faring so well. A '66 Chevy pickup was the registration point for a battery of artillery, I think. It looks stock, has a flat, and begs to be restored. This Fourth of July, though, I think it was just hoping to survive the night. Cars use our street to cut between the two major thoroughfares that border the neighborhood. Last night a few weaved slowly and deliberately through our pyro-induced inversion layer-rather than speeding like they usually do-and escaped at the traffic light with a chirp of acceleration. Duck and cover. Welcome and goodbye. Happy Independence Day.
Editor's Note:This is our monthly column with Dan, Mark, and Harley rotating every four issues. Stay tuned for each editor's unique ramblings.