The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

‘You have to see for yourself,’ he said. ‘I have no intention of sending you a pitcher over the Internet. Besides, it doesn’t look like much until it’s … uh … in use. If you want to roll on up here, I can show you a video.’

‘I’ll be there,’ I said, and two or three days later I was, sober and shaved and with my hair combed.

Now listen to me, you two. I ain’t gonna make excuses for what I done – and you c’n leave Ma out of it, I was the one that got the damn thing, and I was the one who set it off – but I am gonna tell you that the CE4 I saw in that video Johnny showed me and the one I set off last night wasn’t the same. The one in the video was a lot smaller. I even remarked on the size of the crate mine was in when Johnny and me put it in the back of the truck. ‘They sure must have put a lot of packing in there,’ I said.

‘I guess they wanted to make sure nothing would happen to it in shipping,’ Johnny said.

He didn’t know either, you see. Cindy Shining Path asked if I didn’t want to at least open the crate and have a look, make sure it was the right thing, but it was nailed up tight all over, and I wanted to get back before dark, on account of my eyes ain’t as good as they used to be. But because I come here today determined to make a clean breast of it, I have to tell you that wasn’t the truth. Evenin is my drinkin time, and I didn’t want to miss any of it. That’s the truth. I know that’s kind of a sad way to be, and I know I have to do somethin about it. I guess if they put me in jail, I’ll get a chance, won’t I?

Me n Ma unnailed the crate the next day and took a look at what we’d bought. This was at the house in town, you understand, because we’re talkin January, and colder than a witch’s tit. There was some packin material, all right, Chinese newspapers of some kind, but not nearly so much as I expected. The CE4 was probably seven feet on the square, and looked like a package done up in brown paper, only the paper was kind of oily, and so heavy it felt more like canvas. The fuse was stickin out the bottom.

‘Do you think it will really go up?’ Ma asked.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘if ours don’t, what’s the worst that can happen?’

‘We’ll be out two thousand bucks,’ Ma said, ‘but that ain’t the worst. The worst’d be it rises up two or three feet and then fizzles into the lake. Followed by that young Eye-talian who looks like Ben Afflict blowin his trumpet.’

We put it in the garage and there it stayed until Memorial Day, when we took it out to the lake. I didn’t buy nothing else of a firework nature this year, not from Pop Anderson and not from Howard Gamache, either. We was all in on the one thing. It was CE4 or bust.

All right; here we are at last night. Fourth of July of oh-fifteen, never been nothin like it on Abenaki Lake and I hope there never will be again. We knew it had been a goddam dry summer, accourse we knew, but that never crossed our minds. Why would it? We were shootin over the water, weren’t we? What could be safer?

All the Massimos was there and havin fun – playin their music and playin their games and cookin weenies on about five different grills and swimmin near the beach and divin off the float. Everyone else was there, too, on both sides of the lake. There was even some at the north and south ends, where it’s all swampy. They were there to see this year’s chapter of the Great Fourth of July Arms Race, Eye-Ties versus Yankees.

Dusk drew down and finally the wishin star come out, like she always does, and those electric torches at the end of the Massimo dock popped on like a couple of spotlights. Out onto it struts Paul Massimo, flanked by his two grown sons, and goddam if they weren’t dressed like for a fancy country club dance! Father in a tuxedo, sons in white dinner jackets with red flowers in the lapels, the Ben Afflict-lookin one wearin his trumpet down low on his hip, like a gunslinger.

I looked around and seen the lake was lined with more folks than ever before. Must have been at least a thousand. They’d come expectin a show, and those Massimos was dressed to give em one, while Ma was in her usual housedress and I was in a pair of old jeans and a tee-shirt that said KISS ME WHERE IT STINKS, MEET ME IN MILLINOCKET.

‘He ain’t got no boxes, Alden,’ Ma said. ‘Why is that?’

I just shook my head, because I didn’t know. Our single firework was already at the end of our dock, covered with an old quilt. Had been there all day.

Massimo held out his hand to us, polite as always, tellin us we should start. I shook my head and held out mine right back, as if to say nope, after you this time, monsewer. He shrugged and made a twirlin gesture in the air, sort of like when the ump is sayin it’s a home run. About four seconds later, the night was filled with uprushin trails of sparks, and fireworks started to explode over the lake in starbursts and sprays and multiple canister blasts that shot out flowers and fountains and I don’t know what-all.