Sometimes a person needs to blow something up.
At least that how I felt as I drove through a lonely stretch of Wyoming desert. I was on a journey to Utah, the goal of which was to get my head together, devise a plan for my future, and hope that Fate would give me some kind of a sign.
I had traveled more than 1,200 miles. Fate offered up no signs. In fact, the only signs I came across were billboards selling fireworks.
Fireworks are illegal in my home state of New Jersey, so I couldn’t help but marvel at just how many fireworks stores existed west of the Delaware River. Every one had its own colorful billboard, pleading with me to me try my hand at losing my fingers. At first these offers weren’t difficult to resist. I found fireworks stupid. Also, I was fond of my fingers and wanted to hang on to all ten.
As my car sputtered further from home, however, as the states got longer and more featureless and Fate continued to oversleep its alarm, the billboards became more persuasive. By the time I reached that Wyoming desert, I had decided that fireworks weren’t stupid at all. In fact, it seemed more and more stupid to not blow something up.
I’ll be careful, I told myself. If I’m careful, I probably won’t lose my fingers. In a worst case scenario I might blow off a pinkie, but who really needs a pinkie? And maybe a missing pinkie will impress girls. I’ll tell them I lost it in Desert Storm.
The matter was settled. I vowed to stop at the next fireworks store I could find.
Minutes later I was greeted by a billboard.
Fireworks! 1 Miles (sic) Ahead!
“Billboard” is too generous a term; it was a large, hand-painted sign tamped down along the side of the road. I decided it was charming. It’s probably a mom ‘n’ pop explosives store, I thought. I was always a big believer in patronizing independent businesses, so this suited me just fine.
I soon spotted the store near the horizon, standing out among the rock formations and wisps of brown scrub. It wasn’t a store as much as it was an aluminum Airstream trailer on a cinder block foundation. It glistened like a beacon in the midday desert sun. Parked next to the trailer and almost as luminous was a 1970-something sedan painted in a “Have A Nice Day” shade of yellow. They were the only man-made objects for as far as the eye could see.
I pulled alongside the yellow car, which was huge in a way only 1970-something American-made sedans can be. It was pristine and spotless, as if it just came off the factory line with a fresh coat of Turtle Wax. The only thing interrupting the perfect, ding-free surface was an 18-inch-long, metal American flag bolted to the rear fender. (I had discovered that the further west I traveled the more often people used American flags in their decorating. The events of 9/11 would amp up the East Coast’s level of patriotism, but in the 1990s, flags in New Jersey were about as rare as a street corner in Perth Amboy that didn’t smell like feet.)
After admiring the sedan a moment more (it was quite a contrast to my filthy, exhausted Plymouth Duster) I clomped up the two steps into the trailer.
Inside the setup was simple and efficient. Running the length of the trailer was a long glass counter displaying explosives arranged with the studied, loving care one might use to show off Tiffany watches. Behind the counter, from floor to ceiling, were open shelves showing off cheaper, more utilitarian, weaponry. An entire shelf was dedicated to the types of explosives that I thought only existed in Roadrunner cartoons.
This was my very first visit to a fireworks shop and I was kind of in love.
The trailer was empty, so I loitered for a long moment taking it all in. In the glass cabinet, I spotted something black and menacing, a softball-sized sphere with a not-quite-long-enough fuse.
‘Woah,” I said aloud and leaned on the counter to get a better look.
Upon touching the glass, a flash of movement shot up from behind the counter and sent me slamming backward into the wall.
The source of my alarm was the largest German shepherd on earth. He stood on his hind legs and pressed his front paws on the counter as if he was there to wait on me. In that pose he was as tall as I was.
The dog stared at me. He wasn’t angry – I could see that much – but he wasn’t happy either. I sensed he could emotionally go either way. His stare told me that his mood depended entirely on what I decided to do next.
So I did nothing. Both of us were as still as a Natural History Museum diorama.
To my relief, I heard a chipper yell from outside. “Coming! Coming!”
The door flew open and in strode a dusty man with the hungry, lean muscular build of someone accustomed to a life of hard work. In one graceful move, he propped his butt up on the counter top, swung his legs over it, and spun to face me from the other side. He pressed his enormous hands against the counter, mimicking the pose of the dog standing to his left.
He projected a broad smile. “Saw your plates!” he said with undisguised awe. “You’re from New Jersey!”
“Yup.” I said, smiling back.
The man gave the German shepherd’s head a little scratch.
“Beautiful dog you have there,” I said as a pried myself off the far wall.
“Sure is,” his smile grew wider as he scratched the dog again. “Bud is my friend and protector.”
The dog nuzzled the man’s hand and opened his mouth in a slight, doggy grin. Despite his contentment, Bud never took his scrutinizing eyes off me. Bud was indeed a protector.
“Why are you all the way out here?” he asked.
“To buy fireworks!” I said, and we both shared a chuckle.
“They’re illegal where I’m from,” I went on. “So I decided to get some in Wyoming.”
This time the man did not share my chuckle. He only nodded as if he understood the situation all too well.
“Fireworks are a symbol of our freedom,” he said. “You know that, right?”
His question caught me off guard.
“Sure,” I replied.
“When someone denies you the symbol of your freedom, they are denying you freedom.” His tone was harsh, accusatory, as if I might be the one responsible for New Jersey’s fireworks law.
Then he added, “You know that, right?”
A little chill zipped up my spine. In that moment I noticed that I was talking to a man who was larger and stronger than I was. I then noticed that this man had a dog named after a beer that was also larger and stronger than I was.
“Sure,” I replied. My words made me sound as weak as I felt, so I cleared my throat and kept talking. “Sure,” I repeated. My voice still wavered a little, but at least it was louder. “Of course I know that. That’s why I’m here.”
He studied me for a long, excruciating moment. He nodded.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
When I was alone in the trailer, I had all but settled on those softball bomb things, but now, with my heart hammering in my chest, I said the first firework that sprang to mind.
“Bricks.”
For those not in the know, bricks are a set of tiny firecrackers with interlaced fuses. When lit, the firecrackers explode in a machine gun series of rat-a-rat-tats. By fireworks standards they are probably the wussiest things you can ever possibly buy. They’re not even as dangerous as sparklers.
To his credit, the man didn’t flinch. A sale was a sale I suppose. “Black Cat?” he asked.
“Black Cat?” I repeated. I didn’t know what Black Cat meant.
“Black Cat’s the best.”
It dawned on me that Black Cat was the manufacturer. “OK.” I said, starting to recover from our earlier conversation. The angry storm seemed to have passed.
“Large or small?”
“What does the large look like?” I asked. He pulled out a package of bricks the size of a queen mattress.
“Small, I think.”
The small was the size of a twin mattress.
He took my money and stuffed it into a cash box.
As he stared down into the wad of money inside, I saw his jaw clench.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Still staring at the box’s contents, he shook his head — slowly at first, but, then, with greater and greater intensity.
He was revving himself up. I was faced with the realization that the storm hadn’t passed at all; I had just been standing in the eerie calm of the eye.
“Um. I really like you car!” I said.
He flicked my comment away. “Freedom is our most valuable resource and they’re taking it from us. All of us! You know that, right?”
“Uh. Sure.”
“Janet Reno is the one doing it. She’s a Communist. Now, me? I’m a Christian. Are you a Christian?”
“Yes,” I said.
Bud began to take cues from his owner’s mood. The dog’s stare seemed more intense than ever.
“Well, Reno’s no Christian! Christians don’t rob people of their freedom!”
“No,” I said. My eyes flickered to the shelves behind the counter. I didn’t notice before, but hanging above the fireworks shelves, a shotgun was on display.
Sweet Jesus.
Then, like the merchandise he sold, the man exploded. I was assailed by a ferocious life philosophy. His hatred of Janet Reno segued into his hatred of President Clinton, which led to the IRS, which led to The Bankers, which led to how he refuses to get a license or insurance for that car I liked so much because no one had any damn business meddling in his affairs.
But the cornerstone of his sermon, the apex of his rage was reserved for the Phony Wars America had fought in the past – and the Real War that we’d all have to fight in the future.
Because that Real War was coming.
It was coming soon and no one was gonna be able to sit it out.
Everybody was going to have to take a side.
I didn’t understand much of what the guy was talking about. This was months before the Oklahoma City bombing; the militia man philosophy was not yet on anyone’s radar. What I did understand was that I had blindly wandered into something ominous. Something far worse than blowing off a pinkie.
My brain took stock of the situation:
You are more than a thousand miles from home.
You are in the middle of a desert.
There is no one for miles around.
No one knows where you are.
And where are you? my brain asked, rhetorically. You are in a trailer. With an angry, crazy man. A muscular German shepherd. A shotgun. And about four tons of explosives.
Take my advice, my brain said. Whatever this man says, you agree.
I don’t know how long he spoke, but it seemed interminable. I don’t remember him winding down, either; one moment he was raving, jabbing his finger and waving his fists, the next moment the trailer was silent.
He stared at me, seething.
He handed me my wussy brick purchase. I took it, but couldn’t move — not with him staring like that. I could see that there was far too much unspent rage still inside him to do anything rash — like leave.
So I cleared my throat. Then I spoke.
“I never thought of it that way before,” I heard myself say. “You are absolutely right.”
His eyebrows furrowed for a moment, but then I caught one corner of his mouth flicker. Was it the beginning of a smile?
Keep going, my brain said.
“Thank you.” I went on. I held out my hand. He stared at it a moment, then took it and shook it with bone-crunching firmness. He was a missionary; I was his convert.
“What’s you’re name?” I asked.
His charming smile returned. “Name’s Luke.”
“I’m glad I met you, Luke. Very glad.”
I took my bricks and strode with great purpose through the trailer door.
“Glad I met you, too!” Luke called after me.
I hopped into my car and turned the key. Luke followed me outside.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“My name’s Bob,” I said. I then slammed my gas pedal to the floor and left Luke behind in a cloud of dust.
Hey, Look! A Writer Fellow! 
Man, that was some story! What are you, a writer or something? That was fantastic! Thanks for sharing! (And glad you got out of there with your pinkies intact :))
Don’t tell Luke this, but I would’ve sacrificed my pinkie just to get the rest of me out of there.
You’re very lucky Luke and Bud didn’t kill you. Great story, Bob!
I am lucky. But if they *did* kill me I almost certainly would’ve been on Unsolved Mysteries. Remember that show?
Wow great story Bob! Too bad you didn’t get the spectacular fireworks you wanted.
I know! I didn’t even escape with a firecracker worth setting off.
I still have a huge stack of those stupid bricks, by the way.
Cool story, Bob. And here I thought New Mexico was the land of enchantment….
New Mexico is the Land of Enchantment. According to a TV show I enjoy, it’s loaded with meth heads.
You were one disagreement away from a Pulp Fiction scenario . . . Great story.
I don’t have to be Christopher Walken, do I? I don’t care how sentimental a watch is, I’m not doing what he did.
Holy cow.
You drove through Stephen King territory and no mistake. Glad you survived to write about it!
I’m glad I survived to write about it, too. Luke’s version wouldn’t have been as entertaining.
Or coherent. 😉
Most awkward and frightening fireworks purchase ever! At least you left with your limbs, digits, and vision intact. And you made a lifelong friend too…
“I sensed he could emotionally go either way.”—haha!
Have you ever been in a situation like that? Where you just KNOW that one wrong word of move could spell disaster?
As a matter of fact, I have been. During a psychiatric clinic visit when I was a medical student (and no, I wasn’t the patient…). I think both my preceptor and I were a bit nervous.
Ooh, I need details! (Or as many details as would be appropriate re: confidentiality.)
Let’s just say it involved a troubled man. Maybe he was the son of your Luke. 😉
My hope is that Luke didn’t breed.
Oh, Mike, so many fabulous lines in this story. The only thing that kept me breathing was knowing that you were here to tell the tale. Yes, I know those men. Their anger surrounds, precedes, and trails them like swamp gas. Your instincts served you well.
Shortly after the Oklahoma City bombing there was a period of time when the Feds were on the lookout for a second suspect, a John Doe #2.
I was convinced that Luke was John Doe #2.
Shiver. I’m so glad you made it out of Wyoming alive.
Well, did you blow up those bricks? I think “Bob” would have blown them up and fast. What a great story. Sounds like you had an eventful time traveling out west and back. Anxiously waiting for the next tale. Seriously, I’m hooked (at least until you make it home).
I set off a few of those bricks, but there was about a jillion of them in that “small” package. So I have plenty left over. Wanna few?
I do plan to write a few more stories about this cross country trip. I have to warn you, however, this was the only time my life was in danger.
I love it when there’s just one spelling mistakes (sic) made public. Our school is gathering donations for an “autisum” walk<–and no, that's not a clever hybrid term for helping students with autism get into a summer math camp.
PS. Explosions ARE cathartic!
Could it be that the autism walk was adding up the donations? You know, arriving at a sum?
Geeze, I’m really reaching here, aren’t I?
On another note, I agree with you; a good explosion is cathartic. Exploding wimpy little bricks, however, isn’t anything.
Reblogged this on Beechdey’s Weblog.
Hoo boy, remind me to never ever take that same stretch of highway! I’m extremely glad that Luke and Cujo are now part of your history and not your present. Although I think I met Luke’s cousin. He got a job driving for an airporter service and has the distance from the East Bay to SFO to gain converts. You are an awesome storyteller, Writer Fellow! Keep Bob’s adventures coming!
Oh, I need more info about Luke cousin! In what way was he a wackadoodle?
My hubby at the time and I took the airporter from the East Bay to SFO at 5 a.m. We were in the back seat, and the driver, who seemed nice at first, got warmed up and began to excitedly yell his anti-everything philosophy at us over his shoulder while he drove. His thing was an odd mix of extreme religion that he seemed to have made up himself by reading a few random Bible verses and survivalist politics that he seemed to have made up himself by reading Guns&Ammo ads. We learned stuff like when society is reduced to a few people living in tents, the monetary system will return to a barter system, so a man with a wife has an asset, because then he can barter her for food and other key supplies. It went from funny to annoying to scary pretty quickly. I seriously considered leaping out of the van when we hit the Bay Bridge. I also regretted my choice to marry a mild-mannered five-foot-ten CPA rather than a six-foot-six Navy Seal. We kept saying, “You are sooo right,” for 54 miles. And we never, ever took the airporter again, subsequently extremely happy to pay 40 bucks a day to park our safe, maniac-free car near the airport. I’m glad your quick thinking saved you from further peril at the hands of Luke the firestarter, who is no doubt still romping around the desert blowing stuff up.
Trapped in a moving car on a 54-mile journey seems even more dangerous than a trailer. (At least you didn’t have the dog, shotgun and explosives.)
But, wow, what kind of a human being contemplates the idea of bartering a wife?
I know, right? Early Cro-Magnon lives, apparently!
It seems that your voyage of discovery led you to places you would rather not have been. Good thing you remembered that when someone tries to bring the fear o god to ya…absolute agreement is your passage to freedom. You know what I’m talkin’ about, right? 😉
Yes, yes indeed. I know exactly what you are talking about. You made a good point there. A very, very good point.
So funny, Mike. My family lives out in freedom land. Before my brother was shot, he liked to blow things up and finally got a job blasting rock mountainsides to make way for highways. My uncle bought a cannon, Yes, a cannon, and proceeded to blow off three fingers. My mother was much less dramatic and cut off 1-1/2 fingers with a skill saw. When my family moved out there from the east coast, I waved and kept driving. I live far far far away in Oregon.
Dang! With all those missing fingers, could you tell if your family waved back?
I think you made a wise decision in moving to Oregon, D. Wallace. A very very wise decision.
No kidding!!!
And may I ask about your brother? (did you post about him?)
I’ve mentioned him in posts. He was killed in 2003. Though your story was quite funny, there was also a scary undertone that I could relate to. In some areas the wild west is alive and well…and totally absurd. Great writing, Mike. I enjoy every one of your posts.
Alive and well indeed. Thank you for your kind words, D. Wallace.
BTW: Should I call you D. Wallace? “Peach” sounds a bit cheeky.
cool as – many thanks, great story. From the other side of the world I’m not sure whether this story makes the states more or less abstract. Love it none the less.
Thanks, Roly! At times the U.S. feels like three different countries. New Jersey couldn’t be more different than what you’d find out west or down south.
Oh Bob! I’m glad you’ve shared your ‘journey’ story. I really liked the one Mike posted recently but this one had me on the edge of my seat! I laughed then chewed my finger nails then laughed. I had a great ride.
Heart still thumping away-fireworks+anti-social dogs+large missionaries named Luke=explosive. Thanks for sharing 🙂
Thanks! I’ll let Bob know that his work is appreciated.
What a great story! FYI – Fireworks scare the crap out of me unless I am a great distance away when they are ignited!!
They don’t scare me, but oh, how I hate the noise!
That I can handle….it’s the fear of people losing digits….yikes.
This reminds me of a horror movie, except then when you stepped outside you’d see Luke’s toothless, overall-wearing brother leaning against your car.
On another note, my husband used to love fireworks, until he burned his thumb REALLY badly. It was terrible for both of us because I had to clean it and bandage it every day and he almost passed out every time. He hasn’t touched a firework since.
The toothless brother idea of yours gave me the cold sweats. Excuse me while I go get some meds.
I believe you have a travel novel, Mike. Woo hoo. Had me on the edge of my seat. Couldn’t guess if this would end well. You put the pedal to the metal just right. You might not be here to tell the story otherwise. Riveting reading. Thanks so much. There must be more to your trip, right. Will you be sharing anymore or are you saving it for the Book of the Year? 🙂
Thank you, Tess! I’ll offer up more stories in the future.
My brief stop in Indiana was particularly unpleasant.
Aren’t you sometimes amazed at your youthful close calls? 🙂
Yes. Fortunately, they are few and far between.
Fortunately. Sigh.
Phew! Glad you made it out alive!
You and me both, Dino!
With all those Black Cats there could have been an interesting experiment with your golf balls. You did flirt with that idea, didn’t you?
I did not, no. But the manufacturer of those fireworks might be the reason why I have such an instinctive aversion to cats. Hmm…
Well, that’s a great story, Bob! It made me laugh! And feel sorry for you! 😉
No need to feel sorry. I lived!
BTW: Would you like a few handfuls of bricks?
Oh dear. I feel like I should apologize for the western U.S.
No need to apologize, my friend — unless Luke is a relative of yours.
What rectangular state are you from, by the way?
Utah and now Arizona. What is wrong with me? I don’t know Luke, but he’s got cousins throughout the west at least until you hit California.
Have you considered another move? 😉
Too many wonderful moments/phrases to list here, but “Fate offered up no signs…” (chilling and foreboding); showing the change of the narrator as he drives from east to west – from a known home to the unknown future (“In fact, it seemed more and more stupid to not blow something up.”); the fabulous and comedic use of simile (” as rare as a street corner in Perth Amboy that didn’t smell like feet); the short sharp dialogue that kept us, your readers, holding our breaths until the end. Oh, I said I wouldn’t list it all, but just to tell you – I loved your short story of 1990s Americana; of a small scary segment of America; of a young man struggle to find where he belongs, and through a road trip, finding out where he certainly does NOT belong. Brilliant.
Oh, goodness, Pam, this is perhaps the nicest blog comment I have ever received. The fact that it’s coming from you, a writer I respect so very much, makes it even more meaningful. Thank you.
Great story. Fun read. Sad part is I can relate. I have relatives like that., Scary people, to say the least.
Really? None of those relatives are named Luke, are they?
Care to share an anecdote?
The one that is named Luke is a bright young man, educated and lives in an actual house. I wish I could share, but these yahoos have computers too and actually know how to use them. I don’t need any them knocking on my door.
I understand. I don’t want the Luke from my story to come knocking on my door, either.
But you leave us hanging . . . what did you do with the twin mattress-sized firework?
I still have about a jillion bricks left over. I gift you a few the next time you visit New York.
Oh good. We can make one joint trip to the emergency room to repair our missing fingers.
Feh. Bricks can’t blow off anything. They just make a big noise. See that package I’m holding in the post? That itty bitty thing contains 16 firecrackers.
Then I shall wear earplugs.
Haha, Mike! What an awesome story. I’ve only been to Wyoming once, when we were driving through during our cross-country move. When I walked into the gas station on a weekday morning, I swear everyone stopped and stared and everything went quiet. Even the semis outside stopped. I bought my water jugs with a quickness and fled. I didn’t belong there…at all!
I can’t imagine what buying fireworks there was like. Guess when that future war happens, the sky will be ablaze with colorful fireworks from Luke in Wyoming. 😉
That exact think happened to me when I was in Indiana. I felt like the new guy in a 19th century Wild West town.