Independence Day

Nostalgia for misspent youth.

I pulled up at Corey’s house a little after two. Parking behind Ryan’s Escort wagon and Derek’s CR-X, I unstuck my legs from the vinyl seats of my brown ’81 Corolla and stepped out onto the street. Tall fir and cottonwood trees shaded the whole cul-de-sac. I opened my trunk and removed my weapons: a shoebox full of bottle rockets and a wiffleball bat with the end cut off. I walked around to Corey’s backyard. I was the last to arrive. Ryan and Derek were taking turns doing flips on the trampoline. Big Dave, Little Dave, and Jordan were sitting in lawn chairs.

“Hey!” said Big Dave, when he saw me coming around the side of the house. “Let’s do this!”

Corey came out of the house through the open sliding door, as Ryan and Derek jumped down to the thick, soft grass. Everyone grabbed their gear, much of it purchased on the rez that morning, and walked down the short hill to the vacant lot next door.

There were to be no teams today. It was a battle royale. There would be no winners either. We’d go until someone got hurt, we ran out of steam, or out of ammunition. We all spread out, and Corey was first to fire, a devious grin on his face. He liked to fire straight from his garden-gloved hand. His shot was aimed at Jordan, but it was nowhere close.

We ran around shouting and firing for the next ten minutes. Flick, hiss, whistle, pop. We laughed with every close call. A well-aimed shot from Ryan, guided by a length of PVC, hit me in the calf. It glanced off and exploded in the weeds a few feet away. I hit Derek in the back while he was lighting his next shot. Smoke billowed out from the end of my bat.

The battle fizzled out spontaneously. Big Dave sat down, out of breath and with streams of sweat on his forehead. A couple of us were out of rockets. Little Dave showed off a cut on his neck where he had been grazed.

Corey ran back to the house and returned with a special treat: an M-1000, said to have the explosive power of a quarter stick of dynamite.

After some brainstorming, we decided to use it on a rusty 55-gallon drum in the middle of the lot. Ryan tipped the barrel onto its open side, leaving enough of a gap for the mutant firecracker. Corey lit the fuse and tossed it under the barrel. We ran for it. We made it up to Corey’s yard in time to turn and witness the explosion. The top of the drum, weakened by years of corrosion, launched high in to the sky to the accompaniment of a resounding BOOOOMMM that shook the windows of the house. We watched the distant lid grow larger as it tumbled back to earth a few seconds later. We were speechless. We were screwed. Half the town would have noticed that.

Jordan had the bright idea to get on the trampoline. The rest of us gathered around, acting casual.

Not two minutes later, a police officer came around the side of the house. His radio crackled as he approached. My stomach lurched.

“We got a call about some kids lighting off some illegal fireworks. You guys wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

My mouth clamped shut. No one moved. Ryan spoke up.

“No, sir. We’re just jumping on the trampoline.”

The officer gave us the look of a man just trying to tick boxes on a form. With his boot he nudged an open shoebox that was sticking out from under a lawn chair.

“Well, then make sure your bottle rockets stay put away. Have a good Fourth.”

He left. We went inside.