This short story is dedicated to our Founding Fathers whose vision gave us liberty. Although, it is always threatened, it still rings true as we celebrate our Independence Day.
In the spectrum of color, each hue has its own beauty, but together, they form a kaleidoscope. This adds another unique embellishment from the coalescence. In the same way, a person might have a concept that becomes so accepted that it becomes tradition. Such a person is very fortunate. Even if time creates shades to his vision, he did a wonderful thing. Each separate degree of style and individuality is really only a floor to the cornerstone of the original thought. Not only was the idea beautiful, but each variation added to the picture.
As I stepped into my car, I was thankful for air-conditioning. It was humid and getting hot for 7:30 in the morning. Summer, by the calendar, was only days away. Each season has its chronometric time. The summer solstice is the time for baseball, swimming, and barbecuing, especially with the family. Teenagers surface. The older ones cruise main drags and almost all hit the mall. The crumb snatchers have grandparents for sitters. They say kids don't do summer jobs anymore, but I still see them cutting grass and at fast food places. Everyone spends the high point of the sun in different ways, but there is one common thread that is weaved in our culture, Independence Day.
After my last appointment of the day, I drove, looking for a fireworks stand. I marveled at the thought. When I was a kid, fireworks was a back-room business with the air of a speakeasy. Then, they became publicly licensed. I remembered seeing a location along Goldenrod Road. I turned onto route 551. Perhaps, they might have something that I liked or knew?
I clicked on the radio. I searched for the oldies station. The music of Freddie Cannon singing, "Palisades Park" rekindled memories. As I drove, I reflected on my earliest recollection of summertime and the national holiday.
I can recall back to when I was four or five. My family, as well as everyone else in the old neighborhood, celebrated the Fourth in the same way. As soon as dusk settled, we ascended to the roofs of our tenement buildings in the Bronx. We brought whatever we had up to those tar tops and joined our neighbors in one big jamboree. Everyone squeezed out a space and formed a mosaic quilt to life.
The collage included card games, checkers and chess, hotdogs, soda and beer. Maybe some ice cream, but always laughing, dancing, and singing ethnic songs. The air was filled with an esprit de corps. The sky would hold a panorama of multi-colored rainbows. Each roof adding its stroke to the canvas and its chord to the harmony. The effect created a symphonic atmosphere like the talking cereal - snap, crackle and pop. Every holiday has its special flavor. The Fourth was one of unity and sharing. No one had to go political about our freedom. It was reflected in the joy of their faces. John Adams was probably smiling in his grave.
Traffic ahead snarled. I slowed to a crawl with all the late workers and early shoppers, hitting the streets simultaneously. It required more attention to drive. My mind contemplated on how times have changed. Over the years, those changes affected how people celebrated the holiday. I pursued the thought. I wondered how JA's grand concept for Independence Day fares against the modern critics.
A deeper issue centered on children who had been hurt by fireworks. It effected a response by groups who took up the concern as a cause. The resulting legislation all but extinguished the traditional way families celebrated the holiday.
I can't blame the people who wanted to cure the civic illness, but on the other hand, we seem to legislate away our way of life. We have laws requiring licenses for this and that. C'mon! You cannot even have a garage sale without a fee. Everything ends up being about revenues for government and money for corporations. I understand the seat belt law, but I have empathy for smokers. You need a lawyer to know all the insurances that you need. What about traveling? You go through a gauntlet of metal detectors, searches and Id requests. It seems if someone has a gripe, we all get taxed with inspections or wait in line. No wonder I miss the old days.
I just noticed the light turn green. Someone saw it sooner. Their honk on the horn caused me a knee jerk reaction. I said to myself, Anthony, you're getting old. You're losing it. Not only are you having a conversation with yourself, but the horn you honked won't help. It will be like a needle in the head for the guy ahead. It certainly won't make traffic move any faster. Talk about going off on a tangent. All things considered, our democracy keeps trying to improve and that is more than I can say for myself.
I couldn't turn off my mind. I asked and answered myself. What do I think? I think too much. Yeah! That would be JA's reply to modern critics, "Just relax, have a good time and enjoy our heritage of freedom."
My cortex slowed and along with the soothing sounds of the Moody Blues rendition, "Tuesday Afternoon," my mind calmed. Finally, I saw the fireworks stand on the left.
It was nothing more than a tent on a vacant lot. It occurred to me as I approached the stall with all its red, white and blue glitter, that I won't find my childhood favorites like cherry bombs, ash cans and Roman candles. Not everything passed certification.
I greeted the attendant with, "Wow! Chinese rockets, helicopters and sidewinders. I'll take a dozen of each, and a few of those, and give me a couple of these too. Thanks, buddy."
The smile on my face was short lived. As I returned to my car, I heard a commotion at the rear of the lot. Three older boys were jostling a younger kid. Although the teenagers looked like ordinary youngsters in their T-shirts, neon shorts and upscale sneakers, I wasn't sure of their intentions. Their actions spoke for their motive.
I didn't have to hear intimidation to recognize it. I remembered when I was a target of it. It happened at around the same age as this kid, eleven or twelve. I set down my purchase and shouted, "Leave the kid, alone!"
At first, they ignored me. However, when they saw me coming, they took off. The young man tried not to cry when I reached him. I asked, "Are you all right?"
"Yeah. What's it to you?" as he eyed me curiously. He then blurted, "They took my stuff." I asked, "What did they take?" He didn't answer. I guessed, "Your fireworks?" He looked down as he replied, "Yeah. I saved for a month. All for nothing!" I attempted to gain his confidence as I followed up, "What did you do?"
"Oh, lots of things. What's it to you, anyway? I don't know you. Leave me alone!" He was about to walk away, but I continued, "Hey, I don't mean you any harm. I was just trying to help." He fired back, "Yeah. You helped them get my stuff." He kicked the dirt as I responded, "I'm sorry. I didn't realize that you had it under control. What's your name?"
"Raghib Jefferson."
"Raghib, like the rocket from Notre Dame?" He made a mocking sound as he said, "Ha! Except, I'm faster." I adlibbed, "I guess they call you, Supersonic?" He made an expression like I was talking Greek, "That's a plane, man."
I had the feeling that I was getting through to him. He no longer looked watery eyed or fearful. There was a glow on his face. I made a pitch, "Hey, Raghib. I realize that I've got a few too many pyrotechnics. Want some?" He didn't know the word as he tried to repeat it, "Pyro...what?"
"Fireworks." He looked at me hard. I knew we were back to the beginning. I put on my warmest smile. Nothing. Then, I said, "You know, I'm a Notre Dame fan." He gave a knee jerk response, "Who cares. Down here, Canes rule." I struck a chord. He loosened his defensive barriers. I laughed, "Canes! They are like this weather, hot air! C'mon!" I walked toward my car. I hoped that he would follow. As I walked, I recalled what once happened to me.
We moved from our neighborhood a year earlier because the city decided it was inhumane to live the way my family did. I was too young to understand things like leaking roofs, no heat, rodents, and no hot water which is life in New York tenements. The city had something new. They called it, "Projects." With the legislative wisdom New York always shows, they tried to get 10,000 people into a 100 by 150 lot. Somehow, I carved myself a 10 by 10 millimeter of space and I found a best friend.
My mother never approved of him. His father was in the rackets. In the Bronx neighborhood friendships over-ruled parental worries. All I knew was this. At the end of the school year, Dennis and I were the most popular kids in the fifth grade at Blessed Sacrament and in all the Bronx. It was unbelievable.
This is how it started. One afternoon in June, we took the subway to Harlem. Dennis forged a note from his father that read, "This is my son. Give him whatever he wants."
We left with shopping bags filled with fireworks. The next day, we sold them at school at lunchtime. On weekends, we sold them in the neighborhood. I was one rich, little, crumb snatcher except for this one incident.
On that Fourth of July, I left my house stuffed with fireworks. I had them in my socks, pockets, inside my shirt and under my baseball cap. I told my mother that I was invited to a family party at a nearby avenue. I had a long walk ahead, so I left early.
The little fib, eased my mom's mind. She saw adult supervision in a better neighborhood. That block consisted of single-family homes. People had room, whereas, on our street, it was how many to a room. Their contractors stopped at the second elevation, while our builders used the multiple five series: 5, 10, 15 stories high. In their district, the latitude of style was reflected in the individuality of space, whereas, my apartment was the latitude of six on the elevator. In the Bronx space was either a linear or vertical perspective.
As I walked along the way, some kids recognized me. They asked me to sell them some things. I hesitated. I had more than I needed. I thought with the extra money, I could buy a bike. Money and greed got the best of me.
Soon, two kids became four and then, to the fourth power. I was getting nervous with such a crowd. The police would see me. There was no one to protect me. I tried to leave when a strong arm grabbed me.
"Let's see what you got," as a tall, older, black guy held me. I recognized him and heard of his rep. Some said that he robbed checks from mailboxes. Some said that he robbed people and that he even raped a girl. My heart went to my throat. He had two cronies with him. They poked at my pockets. I was looking for an escape as I said, "I don't have anything else for sale. The rest belongs to my friend's family." He glared, "Give me what you got and your money too or I'll beat you to a pulp and just take it."
My mind worked feverously. I never could understand how someone that I'd never met could have such a hateful look on his face. Man, I was scared. I reached into a rear pocket for a bag of cherry bombs. I came out with the hand of one of his buddies. As the leader looked at the bag, I took off. I knew I couldn't outrun three teenagers, especially loaded down as I was, but I threw items as I ran.
I grabbed things from my shirt pocket. I let fly what was under my cap. I lifted my shirt to let loose what was around my waist. A little at a time, I created space between them and me as they stopped to retrieve my castoffs. I kept running all the way to McGraw Street.
When I finally reached it, I stopped and rested on a stoop. I took inventory. I still had my money and a cache of ash cans. I didn't want to tell Dennis or anyone about it. The frightening events seemed distant as the block party began to unfold.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the three delinquents turn onto McGraw St. My heart almost stopped. My brain still worked. I realized that all I had to do was call Joseph, Dennis's older brother, and revenge would be mine.
In that momentary pause, the three punks understood that they were as vulnerable as roaches caught in daylight. They scurried off.
The night's coda surpassed the day's melodrama. I remember everyone saving their soda bottles to use as a launching pad for rockets. We lit them simultaneously, and the sky was filled with the color of pyrotechnic designs. Traffic was boxed out - block party style. In the center of the festivities, we used a city wire trash barrel for a fire. We poured entire packages of fireworks into it for fuel. All night long McGraw Street, crackled and popped. They were great people, special times and priceless memories.
As I bent down to retrieve my bag from under the rear tire, I just hoped that he was behind me. I never looked back, but I was confident that he was there. I was given a chance to do a positive thing in the world. I just needed to find the right words.
"Here it is," as I turned back. I was greeted with, "Man, why are you doing this?" I put on my best sales smile, as he continued, "I mean, those were white kids, and now, you are giving me all your stuff. Are you rich or something?"
"No."
"A preacher?"
"No." I got an idea. I knew violence only breeds more violence. I asked him, "Do you know what graffiti is?"
"Yeah."
"Do you like it?"
"Yeah." He wanted to say more, but I cut in. I continued the thought, "The first person who draws on a house, thinks it's cool. Soon, another does it. Before you know it, all you have is a collage that is totally abstract, reflecting chaos and despair. It spreads like a cancer to every house, fence and tree. It only reminds people who live there or pass by there, of the depression of poverty."
He fired back, "Man. you don't know what you are talking about. Graffiti is cool." I sensed his words were mechanized, automatic responses. All I could hope was that he was engaging his mouth and not his mind. Eleven year old's do not see the big picture. I tried another way, "Raghib, I'm not talking about murals. Have you ever been in a classroom where there was writing on the desks and the place was worn and dirty?"
"Yeah."
"Have you ever been in a newer classroom where the desks are clean and the room is bright with plenty of supplies?"
"Yeah."
"Which would you rather be in?"
"The nice one."
"Maybe my example answers the question. Graffiti is a virus just like the writing on the first desk eventually becomes nothing but a mess of decay. Today, I had a chance to clean up some dirt before it became contagious. Without making you think that I'm weird, I hope you will see the positive side to all this. Maybe some day, you'll do the same for someone else. Enough said without preaching." His face lit up like he made a million dollar sale, "I knew it. You are a preacher, right?" I realized that he was listening to my words and thinking about them as I answered, "Not quite. I'm a salesman, but I wish, well..."
"Well? That's a deep topic."
I laughed and held out my hand for a handshake. He slapped it with a five as I said, "That's funny." His smile went from ear-to-ear as he suggested, "Maybe we should split this fifty-fifty? You didn't take much for yourself."
"I decided to take my family downtown to our City Beautiful, Lake Eola and watch the display the municipality puts on. I'm a little old to be playing with fireworks." He interjected, "But not too old," as he pointed at what I kept. I grinned as I replied, "You're right. Not too old, but old and wise enough to know the Irish all over Miami. Bye, and have a good and safe Fourth."
"Hey, mister! What's your name?"
"Anthony Salutarelli."
"Anthony what?"
"Call me, Mr. S."
"Hey, Mr. S, have a good and safe Fourth of July."
I nodded another good-bye as I got back into my car. Before I drove away, I said, "Take care." I got a good feeling circulating within me. My heart was buzzing. It felt nice to do something with love other than just Christmas, even if it sounded corny to the boy.
The engine roared as I turned back onto 551. Raghib yelled something after me. I didn't catch the words, but his smile and waving hand added another dimension to JA's dream.
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