What Price Freedom

Ah The 4th of July, Independence Day, the day when we remember the tumultuous and unlikely birth of our great nation, when we reflect upon the immense freedoms that our forefathers fought and died for, when we celebrate our great democracy by blowing shit up real good. The great anniversary of our nation’s first defiant cry for freedom is upon us and that can only mean one thing: Fireworks. For me nothing says Independence Day like a half drank case of Coors a wheelbarrow full of munitions and a lighter. I have not truly celebrated Thomas Jefferson’s great document until I have filled the sky with the whistle-bang of poorly aimed – if aimed at all – bottle rockets and the combustive boom of the M-80. When I see a redneck wearing a wife beater, sitting in a fraying lawn chair, throwing fire crackers into a kiddy pool, I know it is the 4th. God bless our freedoms.

Of course freedom is not cheap. No, freedom costs, and so do fireworks. You see, hear in the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, fireworks are – what’s the word – illegal. So, obtaining the munitions for a proper Independence Day celebration involves a perilous trek…to Ohio, to the most frightening place imaginable: the fireworks store. These stores are odd creations, squat, windowless, cinder-blocked bunkers of pyrotechnic oddity. They dot the Pennsylvania-Ohio border, lawless business surrounded by weeded lots and rusting barbed wire fences. They have all the obsessive atmosphere of a porn shop without the bonus of seeing naked people.

I was not going to visit one of these weigh stations of the bizarre this year. I was perfectly content to light up whatever inflammable goodies a friend could provide. Then fellow Cellar Dweller and Bad Decision Maker Supreme Joe called and asked if I would like to join him in a trip to purchase the accoutrements of this year’s celebration. Not seeing any reason not too, I agreed.

I had forgotten what a strange, cursed place a fire works shop was. It had been years since my last visit. I was soon enough reminded. We pulled up to the shop located just on the Ohio side of the border. The building had the air of a militia headquarters: White cinder block, windowless, two defensive levels of barbed wire fencing about the perimeter, no sign, armed guard. Before we could enter we had to fill out legal forms, relinquish any lighters or matches, and turn all cell phones off. With these preliminaries complete, we were granted access to the building proper.

Before us stretched aisle upon aisle of every kind of legal – and quite possibly some illegal – explosive imaginable. There where ones that sparkled, fizzed, smoked, bloomed, twirled, blazed, and dismembered. The space was filled with the surreal juxtaposition of mom and pop business charm, and gunpowder. High explosives where stacked eye high atop shelves marked Nabisco, obviously pinched from some grocers trash. Carefully hand-lettered signs pointed toward the M-80’s. The counters where lined with firecrackers and snaps where a normal convenience store would house its candy and gum (Word to the wise, never confuse snaps with gum. Trust me.)

Joe and I walked the rows, studying packages depicting Wolverines with blood-foamed mouths and military motifs. Many fireworks where housed in missile shaped tubes. One read “Defender of the First Amendment.” We searched for our desired explosives tentatively, terrified lest we make eye contact with one of the other patrons. The other shoppers shuffled from display to display, eyes on the ground until it was time to search a shelf. Once again it was reminiscent of a porn shop: Creepy men shuffling about searching for that particular item which will satisfy their unnatural desires. Well, most of them shuffled. One of the other customers was wheelchair bound. He was missing both legs beneath the knee. Now, I am in no way mocking the handicapped or saying that fireworks were in any way responsible for this guy’s loss…but the guy did have the distinct air of someone who had been thrown by the horse but insisted on getting back on to ride. It was doubly uncomfortable with this gentleman. If you got caught in eye contact you couldn’t drop your gaze. Then you would be staring at his stumps. Then you would be ashamed again and look up…and make eye contact. I swear there was a good five minutes when my head resembled a yo-yo.

Eventually, we made our final selections. We paid the backward talking dwarf behind the counter, and loaded up the car. Then we took back roads back to PA on the off chance a cop might follow us – highly unlikely but an ongoing phobia of Joe’s. Then I spent the remainder of my day cleaning the stench of fireworks shop from my person, but it was to no avail. I cannot scrub my soul.

But it was worth it. The 4th is on the horizon, and I am going to blow stuff up…good.

Shalom