Bondfoolery

We lived on a tight-knit cul-de-sac. We all knew each other. Every Fourth of July, every family would bring a huge sack of fireworks to the middle of the cul-de-sac, and we would set them off for several hours. We kids all got hyped on popsicles, while the dads suddenly all became 15-year-old pyromaniacs, and the mothers all went bald from stress. On this particular Fourth of July, the only little girl of the group invited a friend from down the street. I regarded her as an outsider and avoided eye contact appropriately. The ‘works had been going strong for a couple of hours, and we were all reaching the frenzied, feverish peak, right before the inevitable group sugar crash that always ended in tears. We were preparing an imposing cylinder which would shoot baseball-sized fireballs into the sky. My father was grabbing another box of (my) popsicles from freezer for the girls, and they were waiting in the garage, near the gas can. The firework fell over, mid-explosion, and began to spin in the middle of the cul-de-sac, sending fireballs skittering toward every home. I was immediately flat on my belly in the grass, hands interlaced over my neck, like any coward worth his salt should. The firework finally stopped spinning, and was now merely throwing flaming balls of death into our garage. Dad rushed out of the house, shoving the girls toward safety, bellowing “GET THE HELL OUT OF THE GARAGE!” as a fireball hit the side of his truck. As I would later learn, my mother had just taken a shower, and while she was getting ready, chose this moment to take a look outside. I cannot imagine a more horrifying scene for her to find transpiring. Everyone and everything was fine, aside from a few scorch marks on the driveway, and the chigger bites I got from hurling myself to the ground. But that new girl never dropped by again. For some reason, this was not the last Fourth of July spectacular in our cul-de-sac. The next year, fireworks were again brought out, and again set off. I was already stressed out about the whole thing from last year’s events, so I wasn’t having the best time. Then, a firework must have misfired or something, causing sparks to rain down upon the bench in our front yard. On which I was sitting. I had had enough fireworks for the night, and headed inside, where I proceeded to have a delightful panic attack. I eventually fell asleep in my bed, cozily nestled in the corner of the room, right up against the walls. I was awoken by my mother, who informed me that the rather comforting warmth I was feeling was my own vomit. I had sleep-vomited all over the sheets, and down the wall. When I am awoken from the deepest cycle of sleep, I might as well be a belligerent drunk. So I was not cooperative as she tried to haul me out of bed. I was very confused, and angry that she was interrupting my sleep for no reason at all. Eventually, she got me into a clean change of clothes and somehow convinced me to brush my teeth while she changed the bed linens and pulled the bed out to clean the walls and the carpet. I fell asleep in a chair aimed at the bed, so I drifted guiltlessly back to sleep while watching her toil. That must have felt great for her. I awoke the next morning in the chair, in different clothes than I was wearing when I fell asleep. I had no idea of what had happened the night before until she reminded me, and showed me the ruined mattress. And that’s how I got a new bed for the Fourth of July. I always try to ruin furniture around federal holidays, for the clearance sales.