The Fourth of July—celebrated with fireworks and cookouts. That’s the subject of our 700-word short stories for the month of July. Both stories are inspired by current headlines. And both feature a dash of hubris. That comes from the ancient Greek and often refers to dangerous overconfidence, arrogance and complacency.
In Janet’s story, a man who likes a big show gets more than he bargained for. In D. Z.’s story, fireworks illuminate a shadowy lurker. But just who is in danger?
Fireworks and hubris. What could go wrong?
She gave him that older-sister look. “I think you’re crazy.”
“It will be fine,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “Easy peasy. I’ll be there and back in a day.”
She didn’t look convinced. Instead, she started ticking off the negatives on her fingers. “It’s dangerous. What about that fire, the one last Fourth of July? Wasn’t that caused by someone lighting up a bunch of illegal fireworks? Two houses, both completely destroyed.”
“Some people just aren’t careful. I am.”
“Illegal? Hello? What happens if you get caught, if you get pulled over by a cop?”
“I won’t. I’m careful. I don’t speed, I don’t get distracted. Nobody’s gonna pull me over.”
“Expensive. How much are you planning to spend on all this stuff? For what? A few minutes entertainment?”
“It’s my money. And I like a good show at my Fourth of July barbecue. A lot of bang and flash.”
“Well, I think you’re just plain stupid to do it. I swear, I should rat you out to the cops, for your own good.”
That pissed him off. “Thank you very much for your opinion. Mind your own business and quit nagging me like a damn fussbudget.”
At that, his sister threw up her hands. “Suit yourself. I guess you’re gonna do what you’re gonna do. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She turned and stalked away.
Muttering under his breath, he climbed into the rented SUV and started it, backing out of the driveway. It was a bright, sunny morning in July, and he was driving from Alameda to Nevada to buy fireworks. Like he said, he liked a lot of bang and flash at his annual barbecue, and so did his friends. And the show went on for a couple of hours, not just minutes. He liked the good stuff—rockets and Roman candles, spinners, fountains, and barrel bombs.
But fireworks, all of them, were prohibited in Alameda, not that the law ever stopped him. He’d never been busted, that was for sure. The kind of fireworks he liked weren’t legal in California, either. He used to buy them on the street. Then he found out about the place in Nevada, where he could get anything he wanted.
His sister was always harping about fire danger. Well, Alameda was an island, surrounded by water. It ain’t like I’m gonna cause a forest fire, he told himself, accelerating onto the freeway. It’s not gonna hurt anyone. Yeah, that house fire last year, but his sister was just blowing smoke about how it started with someone setting off fireworks. As for illegal, too many damn laws, telling guys like him what to do. And dangerous? Hell, he was always careful.
The drive took more than four hours. The interstate was packed with holiday traffic, especially leaving the Bay Area and going through Sacramento. He made it over Donner Pass and down through Truckee, finally crossing the state line into Nevada. Past Reno, he got off the interstate and headed toward his destination on two-lane roads.
When he got to the fireworks store, the parking lot was crowded, lots of cars from California. Inside, he felt like a kid in a candy store. Cool, this place had all the best stuff. This would be a great Fourth of July. He was stoked.
He picked out what he wanted, dropping more than a thousand bucks, then loaded the fireworks into the back of the SUV. He’d brought a sandwich, snacks and sodas, and he ate in the car. Then he got on the road for the return trip. Four-plus hours home and it was already mid-afternoon. It made for a long day, but he should be home before dark.
Traffic on the interstate moved slowly as he headed west over the mountains. He was heading down I-80, picking up speed as the freeway widened on the approach to Sacramento. His bladder was full, and he was thinking he shouldn’t have drunk that second can of soda. Suddenly a pickup veered into his lane. He hit the brakes, turned the wheel. The SUV left the pavement and hurtled down an embankment.
Witnesses said there was a huge bang and flash.
A spray of red and blue clusters exploded overhead, followed by a happy face and a heart. Who knew you could make designs with fireworks? Elspeth, my Labrador, lay still on the grass next to my chair on the deck overlooking the lake, and the raft emitting the fireworks, one after another. She slobbered over a bone she had dug out earlier from under the bushes that rimmed my property, one paw holding it down as she licked and chewed.
My hand dangled on her back to let her know that the booms, buzzes, and bright lights overhead were okay. Her tail wagged from time to time, then she’d slobber on the bone. A particularly bright white display lit the deck, the dog, the bone, and a man in black, wearing a mask to cover his face.
I pitched my beer bottle at him. It wasn’t a mirage or odd shadow. He dodged the bottle. It hit the rock of the promontory I sat on and bounced down the face until it popped and shattered. Neither of us broke our gaze. Elspeth didn’t bother with the drama; she chewed happily, her tail wagging.
“Do you have any food?” the shadow asked, as though he had stumbled on my isolated cabin.
“A hot dog, some beans, an ear of corn. Fourth of July food.”
“You were expecting company?” He took a step towards me. There was something in his swagger, as though he normally walked with a gun on one hip and a nightstick on the other.
“I haven’t eaten yet, I always wait for the fireworks to end,” I lied. I was celebrating more than the Fourth on this warm, festive night, just me, my dog and a few beers.
“Mind if I approach?”
Mind you, no one asks another if they mind an approach, confirming my first impression. “Not if you show me your hands.”
The shadow snorted before easing into the dim light cast by my porch light, ten feet away, his hands held palms out at his sides.
“Where’s the food?” he asked, as though he thought me that stupid.
I nodded toward my ratty, beat-up Coleman barbecue. He lifted the lid. “Any condiments?”
A firework tore into the night, lighting the man’s features, light eyes and all.
“How long have you been evading ICE?” I asked, playing into his play.
“Days,” he answered.
“Have a seat. What brought you up here?”
“I heard there was a woman with a conduit out. You her?”
I nodded, straightening my blue jean-clad legs out in front of me, signaling total ease with him and his question, even as my right hand grazed the gun strapped beneath my deck chair. “How do I know you’re not them?”
He sat in my other deck chair, about three feet away, a small table between us. He glanced at me as a firework blossomed overhead. He was not only white, but lily-white, with blue eyes, fair skin, with a lock of light hair pocking out from under his balaclava. Who would wear one on an 80-degree night? Or hide behind one if he needed help? You know that feeling you get right in the gut, a sharp pain that won’t go away. I got it.
“I have a warrant,” he said.
“Too bad it’s the Fourth of July. Seems like a rotten day for abridging a citizen’s rights.”
“Does, doesn’t it?” he said, opening and then swigging from one of my beers. “I suppose you call yourself a patriot?”
“And you? Well, of course you do.” I sat a bit straighter in my chair, summing up gumption.
“I’m just doing my job.”
“Heil to you, too. You’re human, you have discretion, you can make decisions, wise ones,” I challenged, confident that my eighty-year-old root cellar was empty. A van picked up the eight asylum seekers I had hidden early this morning. All had been integral to the success of our community, some for decades. Now, they were well on their way north, and soon to be free to decide their own fate. I sipped my beer and waited.
I wasn’t worried. Beside me, Elspeth licked the ulna of the last ICE agent.
Pyrotechnics. For July, what better word than pyrotechnics. The word comes from the Greek words pyr, meaning fire, and technikos, meaning artistic. It’s the science and craft of creating fireworks. It’s also used to describe a fireworks display. And it can be used to refer to a brilliant performance or display, such as “she thrilled her audience with her vocal pyrotechnics.”