So I know it might be a little ridiculous, considering all the political yuck that’s going on, but I still really love my country. I especially love it on the 4th of July, a holiday near and dear to my heart because 1) nobody can judge me for loving my country and 2) I get to blow stuff up.
Picture this.
You’re in a wooden box about the size and shape of a trailer. It’s about a million degrees. There are maybe two fans struggling to break through the heat, but at best they shuffle the humid air around so that instead of sweaty, you’re sweaty and your hair is blowing in your mouth (pretend you have long hair). The back wall of the box has wooden shelves that stick splinters in your fingers as soon as you touch them; the walls to the far left and far right on the narrow end of the trailers have wide open doors where white-hot sunlight pours inside and you can see the dust floating around; the front wall has one long counter (a slab of wood on plastic pegs), and from there up the wall is a metal grate and tiny windows; the floor of the box isn’t wood at all; it’s asphalt. Your box is in the middle of a parking lot.
What else is in the box? More boxes. So many boxes, mostly stacked, some cardboard, some colorful. They’re flying off the shelves. They’ve got shiny wrappings and lots of neat toys inside—toys that are particularly…explosive.
People are shouting. Shouting numbers, shouting names, shouting for a bag or a pencil or a calculator. Some are shouting jokes and jabs at each other. The people shouting are all your friends. You’ve known them for years. They’re passing the boxes through the windows and collecting cash, sweating like crazy but still smiling, and not for the sake of customer service. Somehow, this hot, dusty mess is actually a blast.
You and your friends have turned selling your product into a game. Some know more about the fireworks than others, but everyone’s trying to sell the customer on the Big Pack, the one that’s a couple hundred bucks and will practically pay for a kid’s entire camp. The Big Pack is usually bought by a group of dads who host their families together, who really want their kids to have an amazing 4th of July, and who also really want to watch stuff blow up. I love those kinds of people. There’s also always that middle-aged guy with graying hair and a fanny pack who insists that he show you his ID to buy his fireworks, as if he thought he looked under 18. There are always the kids that come to the window and try to buy fireworks all by themselves, and you have to patiently explain that no, that’s illegal. Also, Roman Candles. Everyone asks about the big fireworks that shoot up in the sky, and we have to patiently explain that no, those are also illegal in this city. It happens every time.
Maybe eight hours of this passes. I drag my tired feet out of the booth and buy a few dazzlers to take with me. But after all of that, I’m not going home just yet. There’s still something very important to take care of.
I’m talking fireworks. For as long as I can remember, we’d go to my Auntie and Uncle’s house (family friends, not blood). We’d light up our sparklers until the sun set. Then we’d set up chairs in the garage and put on the music for the Disneyland Electrical Parade and put a ladder out in the parking lot. On that ladder, we’d set mountains of explosives. All the participants contributed to the pile; we’d have a potluck of food and TNT. We’d put on glow stick necklaces and bracelets and settle in for the show. The boys would start lighting fuses, and boom, fizzle, pop! The fireworks would dance.
These last few years, it’s been my brother and I, sans parents, since mom and dad work every hour that the fireworks booth is open. But that’s okay.
The 4th of July is my poor cats hiding under the bed, terrified at the strange sounds and smells of the day. Even now, as I write this, a few of my neighbors are early to celebrate, and dozens of fireworks are going off. It’s July 3rd. Tomorrow, it won’t be dozens. It’ll be thousands. There’ll be fireworks galore, and good food, and flags waving the news that our good men fought hard so we could be free to stay one nation, and so we could blow stuff up in safety with our families. That’s my U.S.A..
Good luck to all the firefighters out there. Please, celebrate safely.
