(no subject)
Downtown Henderson, July 04th. People milling the downtown streets, heedless of the odd vehicle passing through, the drivers white-knuckled and tense, weaving through a crowd that just doesn't care. We stick to the sidewalk and find a curb at the corner of Third and Water that looks fine for sitting.
A bar somewhere nearby plays shitty cover songs. Barefoot children a few feet away dance to all of it, indiscriminate, a startling amount of hip involved. My eyes sweep the mass of expectant spectators, noting the differences from what I'd see at home. Small-town farming families, the parents stuck in some early '90s time warp that involves teased bangs, jean shorts, white sneakers. And all of them Caucasian. I never realized how diverse Wilmington is by comparison. Wilmington, for god's sake.
Chris and I split a Xanax before we left their house, so all the people aren't bothering us. As far as I'm concerned, it's just me and my small group: my sister, her boyfriend, my nephew.
My nephew spots a friend from his middle school and detaches from us. The conversation lulls. A faint breeze stirs the baby hairs at the nape of my neck. I feel like it's a good time.
"So," I manage faintly, my heart beating a little faster. Heather slaps at a mosquito, possibly imaginary, on her back, adjusts her glow stick bunny ears. Chris laughs to himself at something outside my line of sight.
"So," I try again. The music changes to a rock band with a male vocalist doing their rendition of "Rolling in the Deep." My eyes roam uneasily, looking for something to focus on. The dancing kids are now lying on the road, hands behind their head. Maybe they're watching for the first star.
There's a long pause in which nothing happens.
"You probably already figured this out from Facebook, but Amanté and I are dating. We're in an open relationship."
Someone sets off a string of Black Cats nearby. Heather blinks her green eyes, but only at me. Only casually.
"Okay," she replies, equanimous. "I thought so."
The sound of a bottle rocket and everyone glances involuntarily toward the water, thinking the show has started.
"We figured something like that," Chris says. "After that article you posted."
When I was a kid in Florida, we used to watch the fireworks display over the Banana River. Someone on Merritt Island put up a show every year. In the back corner of my favorite neighborhood playground along the east bank of the river, we'd sit on a blanket and watch in awe. I'm not sure how our parents tolerated all our heavy-handed oohing and ahhing.
Colorado was different, a lake. Prospect Lake. One year, a heavily intoxicated man sitting somewhere nearby in the dark spent the entire spectacle bellowing, "YEAH, BABY! YEAH! I LOVE THIS COUNTRY!" and my sister and I were the only people who acknowledged it in any way.
Living in southern Indiana meant watching from the edge of the Ohio River. Every year, my dad, my aunt, my cousin Lacy, and I would find a spot near the boat ramp and settle in, waiting ages for the sun to set and the fireworks to begin. Lacy and I would play cards and clapping games, guess which summery songs the city would pipe over the sound system along the river walk. I was good at guessing. I was older, I remembered more songs about summer. When the sky grew dark, we'd lie back and look for the first star to wish on, something I got from my mom. I still do it.
Most July 04ths for the last decade, I've watched from the eastern side of the Cape Fear. The Battleship North Carolina is anchored across the way and the fireworks fill the sky over it while "The Star-Spangled Banner" blares on repeat from somewhere, patriotic as hell I never see it without texting Lacy to tell her I'm thinking of her. There are always loads of kids losing their minds over sparklers. I envy them.
And here I am, another year, another river. I'm watching from the Ohio again, only now I'm on the south bank. Lacy is probably in this crowd with her family, I realize at some point, and I would love to see her and share this with her, but I'm so content with our small, quiet group. Heather, Chris, my nephew, me.
Which is how it comes to pass that my sister and I watch the 04th of July fireworks together for the first time since we were children, occasionally murmuring, "Yeah, baby! Yeah!" to one another, laughing as a low-quality copy of "God Bless the USA" deafens everyone in that bar.
I picture the tiny versions of us from nearly 30 years ago, sitting with my brother in a park that hasn't existed in decades. Indian-style on an old blanket laid out among the faded spring riders that were once meant to look like turquoise sea horses and red lions, our faces lifted to the sky, mouths agape when we're not pointing out our favorite style of fireworks, the smell of sulfur from spent firecrackers mixing with a hundred backyard grills fired up all over the neighborhood. Our parents were always on lawn chairs behind us, guarding the fresh sparklers and their smoldering counterparts, still glowing-hot at one end. We'd watch the show and then they'd walk us home under the safe, orange glow of the streetlights. In the front yard, they'd let us fire up the rest of the sparklers in the box, one by one, etching pictures in the dark that only lasted a moment.
A bar somewhere nearby plays shitty cover songs. Barefoot children a few feet away dance to all of it, indiscriminate, a startling amount of hip involved. My eyes sweep the mass of expectant spectators, noting the differences from what I'd see at home. Small-town farming families, the parents stuck in some early '90s time warp that involves teased bangs, jean shorts, white sneakers. And all of them Caucasian. I never realized how diverse Wilmington is by comparison. Wilmington, for god's sake.
Chris and I split a Xanax before we left their house, so all the people aren't bothering us. As far as I'm concerned, it's just me and my small group: my sister, her boyfriend, my nephew.
My nephew spots a friend from his middle school and detaches from us. The conversation lulls. A faint breeze stirs the baby hairs at the nape of my neck. I feel like it's a good time.
"So," I manage faintly, my heart beating a little faster. Heather slaps at a mosquito, possibly imaginary, on her back, adjusts her glow stick bunny ears. Chris laughs to himself at something outside my line of sight.
"So," I try again. The music changes to a rock band with a male vocalist doing their rendition of "Rolling in the Deep." My eyes roam uneasily, looking for something to focus on. The dancing kids are now lying on the road, hands behind their head. Maybe they're watching for the first star.
There's a long pause in which nothing happens.
"You probably already figured this out from Facebook, but Amanté and I are dating. We're in an open relationship."
Someone sets off a string of Black Cats nearby. Heather blinks her green eyes, but only at me. Only casually.
"Okay," she replies, equanimous. "I thought so."
The sound of a bottle rocket and everyone glances involuntarily toward the water, thinking the show has started.
"We figured something like that," Chris says. "After that article you posted."
When I was a kid in Florida, we used to watch the fireworks display over the Banana River. Someone on Merritt Island put up a show every year. In the back corner of my favorite neighborhood playground along the east bank of the river, we'd sit on a blanket and watch in awe. I'm not sure how our parents tolerated all our heavy-handed oohing and ahhing.
Colorado was different, a lake. Prospect Lake. One year, a heavily intoxicated man sitting somewhere nearby in the dark spent the entire spectacle bellowing, "YEAH, BABY! YEAH! I LOVE THIS COUNTRY!" and my sister and I were the only people who acknowledged it in any way.
Living in southern Indiana meant watching from the edge of the Ohio River. Every year, my dad, my aunt, my cousin Lacy, and I would find a spot near the boat ramp and settle in, waiting ages for the sun to set and the fireworks to begin. Lacy and I would play cards and clapping games, guess which summery songs the city would pipe over the sound system along the river walk. I was good at guessing. I was older, I remembered more songs about summer. When the sky grew dark, we'd lie back and look for the first star to wish on, something I got from my mom. I still do it.
Most July 04ths for the last decade, I've watched from the eastern side of the Cape Fear. The Battleship North Carolina is anchored across the way and the fireworks fill the sky over it while "The Star-Spangled Banner" blares on repeat from somewhere, patriotic as hell I never see it without texting Lacy to tell her I'm thinking of her. There are always loads of kids losing their minds over sparklers. I envy them.
And here I am, another year, another river. I'm watching from the Ohio again, only now I'm on the south bank. Lacy is probably in this crowd with her family, I realize at some point, and I would love to see her and share this with her, but I'm so content with our small, quiet group. Heather, Chris, my nephew, me.
Which is how it comes to pass that my sister and I watch the 04th of July fireworks together for the first time since we were children, occasionally murmuring, "Yeah, baby! Yeah!" to one another, laughing as a low-quality copy of "God Bless the USA" deafens everyone in that bar.
I picture the tiny versions of us from nearly 30 years ago, sitting with my brother in a park that hasn't existed in decades. Indian-style on an old blanket laid out among the faded spring riders that were once meant to look like turquoise sea horses and red lions, our faces lifted to the sky, mouths agape when we're not pointing out our favorite style of fireworks, the smell of sulfur from spent firecrackers mixing with a hundred backyard grills fired up all over the neighborhood. Our parents were always on lawn chairs behind us, guarding the fresh sparklers and their smoldering counterparts, still glowing-hot at one end. We'd watch the show and then they'd walk us home under the safe, orange glow of the streetlights. In the front yard, they'd let us fire up the rest of the sparklers in the box, one by one, etching pictures in the dark that only lasted a moment.