My friend procured a box of fireworks from a guy in a church basement. Two free cupcakes with each purchase. The fireworks have pornographic names: Golden Shower, Combustion Chamber, Flashing Fountain. My friend tells me he is going to set them off at the end of his street. “Or maybe at Baker Beach,” his wife calls out from the kitchen, where she is making a cherry-almond cafloutis.
He invites me back that night. “Let’s blow shit up,” he says when he opens the door, a cheeky grin peeking out from behind his bushy beard. The wife is now in on the plan, as are two fearless children. The boy wants to try lighting all the sparklers at once. “Yeah, right,” his mom says, pulling a beanie over his head. The girl holds up one of the fireworks. It is called Unglued and has a picture of a gorilla pounding its chest. “This one looks cool,” she says, flipping her shoulder-length strawberry blond hair.
My friend tells me I will be the getaway driver and loads the fireworks into my trunk. I have a new Honda with no license plate. Perfect, he says, tucking two lighters into the front pocket of his jeans. He fills a bucket with water and holds it between his knees as I back out of the driveway.
I remind myself to drive on the right side of the road. Two days ago, I moved back to San Francisco from Australia. My husband and children are at home sleeping while I am across the park, heading into the Presidio at nightfall, with a trunk full of explosives. Welcome to America.
My dad also used to set off fireworks on the fourth of July. Neighbors gathered in the back alley behind our house and sat on folding chairs, wool blankets on their laps. We kids wrote our names in the air with sparklers and tried unsuccessfully to convince Dad to let us light some of the loot. My favorites were the spinning flowers. Sometimes he’d do three or four at a time and we’d shriek, pretending they were chasing us. Little spastic firebombs.
Tonight, we review our options and decide on a deserted parking lot. Once the arsenal is unloaded, we get started. It is pitch black now and we use a phone as a flashlight. We start small with something called Sparkling Glory. The boy wants to light it but his parents tell him no way and to step back.
I peel back the plastic outer layer to expose the wick and hand it to my friend solemnly. “Let’s do this thing,” I say, in my most Dwayne Johnson voice. He walks ten steps ahead, lights it, places it on the ground and jumps back. His wife keeps her hands on the boy’s shoulders. The girl is jumping in anticipation. We are prepared for a big explosion.
Sparkling Glory is more like Overflowing Milk Container. The three adults cock their heads and stare at the neon box, shooting out the smallest, safest, most delicate gold and silver sparks.
“Cool,” the kids exclaim, without a hint of irony. “That’s amazing!”
Their excitement is contagious, and suddenly we can’t light them fast enough, one after the other. Then two or three at once. Soon the kids are lighting them. The kids feel brave and jittery and all of us are laughing and writing our names in the air with sparklers. It’s a blast.
Is that a siren?
Two police cars are flying down the hill towards us. “Wait,” we say to the girl who is about to light a hot pink box called Starfire. “It’s the police,” we scream at each other. “The police!” We throw the used fireworks in the bucket and conspicuously position ourselves in front of the remaining pile, a Scooby Doo tactic. My friend pulls his son close and says, “Don’t say a word.”
The cops are not here for us. They have pulled over a car and we watch the episode unfold from behind the trees. “Sir, step out of the car and keep your hands where I can see them,” the policeman instructs through a megaphone. My friend’s boy looks scared. “Don’t worry,” I tell him, realizing I am still holding Combustion Chamber, “It’ll be ok.”
We decide it’s best to not light any fireworks in front of the police, so we gather up our empty boxes, discarded plastic wrap and dirty bucket and drive out of the woods. Back at my friend’s house, we light Golden Shower in his driveway. We were saving this one for last, in honor of our president. It was disappointing. “That’s one small bladder,” my friend says, and hugs me goodbye.
It is close to midnight when I crawl into bed next to my sleeping husband. I hear fireworks in the distance. I think of my friends in Perth and wonder what they are up to on a Thursday afternoon. I smell like a bonfire.