Patrick's monthly nonfiction pieces can now be found at We Who Are About to Die.

They are called Everything was Great Until it Sucked.

Find them here. 

December 1, 2011

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And then there was the time a firecracker ate my fingers. At least, that's what it felt like.

Let’s call it the summer 1991, I was eleven. I, like a lot of other misguided youth, probably thought biker shorts were a fashion statement. I also vaguely remember owning a Homey the Clown t-shirt. It was June, which meant sweat was in season and so was working hard as an amateur pyrotechnician.

My parents, god love ‘em, showed the questionable judgment of letting me play with firecrackers.

The Wensinks had just returned from a smuggling run across the border. Ohio has a lot of admirable qualities, but fireworks laws are not among them. The state doesn’t sell anything more dangerous than sparklers and snakes. So, as a boy, we had to go to Indiana for our yearly Fourth of July display of firebreathing patriotism. This was a road trip, because Indiana was nearly two hours away. This illegal adventure was a staple of the summer season and pretty much the highlight of my young life each June.

You have to understand, I wasn’t the kind of kid who had a sweetheart next door. I never had a girlfriend as a boy. My first love was fireworks.

Until that romance nearly cost my fingers.

We’d just returned from Indiana, car loaded with brightly colored explosives. It was dark out and my biker shorts and I were antsy. “Please can I light one?”

“No.” Mom said in the mist of the freezer. “We’re having ice cream. Just have a bowl and wait.”

“Please, just one firecracker.”

“No. It’s dark.”

“Exactly! They light up.”

My mother caved. “Oh, fine. Just one.”

We lived in the country, which meant no neighbors for a mile. No neighbors meant nobody was going to mind an early Fourth of July display. Everything was dark and still, except for the sound of wheat in the wind, like sandpaper across wood.

As soon as my bare feet touched cold night grass, I ripped off the red wax paper like a Christmas gift. I couldn’t untangle the braided wicks fast enough. These weren’t life-ending M-80s or anything, just the standard birthday candle-sized crackers. I struck a bluetip match, touched it to wick and tossed the featherweight explosive. Before it met the ground, the Black Cat went pow with a flash of orange in the darkness.

The crack echoed across the wheat fields.

The satisfaction from this, I would learn when older, was comparable to doing naughty things with the later loves of my life.

“Mom and dad might not have heard that one,” I figured. “Just light another. Nobody will know.” Thus, my childhood obsession was kicked into high gear. I was a gambler unable to turn a corner without tripping over back alley craps games.

I lit another, chucking it the minute my ears picked up the wick’s sizzle.

Pow! Flash of orange. Shiver of joy.

This went on several times until I came to the Quick Wick.

I lit one of my red beauties, pinching it between thumb and finger, but there was no slow sizzle of sparks. The wick went up like it was dipped in gasoline. There one second, feeding into a mouth filled with gunpowder the next.

Little Mr. Biker Shorts didn’t have time to react.

The sound cracked in my fingers, my ears were nothing but a ringing squeal and I violently shook that hand. A terror I’d never met flooded my body, standing in the dark, hopping up and down, whispering, “Oh-no, oh-no, oh-no, oh-no.”

I was not praying to the god of pyrotechnics, Yoko Ono, but rather too scared to look at my hand. I couldn’t feel my fingers. They were gone, I knew it.

With no thumb or forefinger I’d never play Nintendo again, I’d never shoot a basketball again, I’d never be able to do things to a women’s anatomy that I saw in R-rated movies. My fear was so huge that I couldn’t force myself to look at the hand, knowing there’d be exposed blood and bone and not much else.

Still shaking the hand I ran into the house. “It blew up!” I screamed, flapping fingers like they were on fire.

“What?” my dad said.

“It blew up in my hand.”

“Let’s see it,” they said, clattering ice cream bowls.  “Calm down.”

Eyes jammed shut, I presented the mangled hand. I couldn’t catch my breath. Somehow the love of my life had betrayed me.

“It’s okay, you’re fine,” One said. “Does anything hurt?”

“No.” I looked at the paw. There were all five digits, not even a scorch mark. Some sort of pyrotechnic miracle. Yoko Ono was clearly watching out for me.

“You’re alright. No more firecrackers, got it?”

I went back to my firecrackery ways, of course. Torturing Matchbox cars and GI Joes like some sort of Toys ‘R’ Us Dr. Mengele. There was still joy, but our love was fading.

And then twenty years passed. In the amount of time it takes a Quick Wick to ignite, the summer fireworks season lost its charm. I filled that lust for Black Cats with video games and shooting hoops and completely failing to get girls to let me play R-rated movie with them.

Before I knew it, I didn’t think about fireworks. Before I knew it, I was 31 and hadn’t touched match to wick on anything more dangerous than pine scented candles in two decades.

Joyful memories were now hazy clouds: lording over the stash of Sparkling Fountains and Saturn Missiles and Flaming Pagodas. The anticipation of planning the firing order for Independence Day night, affixing little numbers to each. That anxiety during the hours after the hamburgers and ice cream were eaten on the Fourth, knowing the freaking sun doesn’t set until something like 2:30 am during Ohio’s summer.  Begging dad, “Can we start now?” over and over until it was finally night.

That passion was completely swept from my life.

And then, recently, a fireworks catalog came in the mail. Addressed to me.  Like a long-forgotten girlfriend sending a Facebook message.

Or was it Yoko sending a message?

A cruel message at that, since Kentucky is also home to little more than sparklers. But Indiana, this time, was only a five minute drive across the Ohio River. And, like an exploding Duty Free shop, the first exit off the highway had a fireworks emporium waiting for us less-fortunate Kentuckians.

Powder Keg Fireworks looked like it was housed in an abandoned supermarket. Because, well, it probably was. One month a year, it’s Louisville’s lifeline to all things sparkly and explosive. However, it must have another one-month gig, because there was a lot of garland left along the top shelf of most racks.

No matter, because those racks were stocked. This trip to Indiana as an adult was just as bomb-tastic as the ones as a boy. However, names like Saturn Rocket or Chinese New Year were the things of decades past. Those titles felt quaint compared to modern pyrotechnics. Clearly, these new titles were workshopped by marketers, because they say a lot about who purchases them.

A Guide to What Your Fireworks Say About You

Salute our Troops; Attack Iraq: This says: “I love this damn country and the freedom that comes with it.” It also states:  “I’m ready to accidentally burn down my neighbor’s house to prove it.”

Mayan Temple; Sidney Harbor Bridge: This says: “I am a world traveler and a college professor. Watch me ignite this pyrotechnic display using only my smoking pipe.”

Purple Rain: This says: “There’s only one way to come out of the closet on Uncle Sam’s birthday, and that’s with a Prince-themed backyard barbecue.”

Make it Rain: In an attempt to discourage amateur meteorologists, the manufacturers send a clear message, imprinting the paper walls of this brick with floating dollar bills. It says, “the next best thing to a stranger’s vagina in your face is forty-five dollars of fireworks.”

Absolute Pyro: (Featuring a non-flaming image of the Capital dome for whatever reason) Saying: “I am Patriotic, but possibly illiterate.”

Chicken on a Chain: Says: “I was in such a hurry to buy stuff, I didn’t even read this one’s label. Now, I’m worried my kids will think it’s some weird sex-thing. …Oh my god, is it?”

Gittin’ It Done: “I am going to skirt Larry the Cable Guy’s copywritten slogan and deprive him of more sleeveless flannel shirts. Go America!”

One Bad Mother in Law: “Hmmmmm, Sarah’s mom doesn’t seem to get the hint when I mumble and slam beers in her presence. Perhaps this is the way to truly express my displeasure for my wife’s maternal connection. “

Butt Ugly Fountain; Dragon Farts: This says: “I got a fake ID and am using my allowance wisely.” It also states: “I am a 31-year-old reliving a childhood fascination that nearly cost two fingers.”

Walking the aisle, I realized two things. One, being the guy naming fireworks must be the best job in the world. Two, being the graphic designer for a fireworks company must require little more than being a seventh grader with limited Photoshop skills.

The elderly woman in charge of Powder Keg, with permed blond hair and a waddle, found me in an aisle. “You comparing prices?” she said in a deep south accent. [Wentastic Fact: Residents of Southern Indiana tend to have much thicker accents than those just a few minutes away in Kentucky. Why? Who knows.]

“Oh, uh,” I stammered, hiding my little pad used to record all the awesome names. “No, I’m just taking notes…to tell my buddies about…so we can, you know, buy lots of fireworks.” I got red as the sparks from a Dragon Fart.

“Uhh-huh…” she walked off, keeping an eye like I was a shoplifter or a sleeper cell.

Why did you lie? I thought.

It started haunting me, walking up the aisle of firecrackers—Black Cats stacked in packages as small as a bookmark and huge as a truck tire. Now, apparently, they also make something called Hydro-Crackers that can explode underwater. Something the 1991 me would have given his right two fingers for.

But twenty years later, I couldn’t go through with it. I was filled with adult thoughts like, “My wife will be mad I wasted fifteen bucks on firecrackers,” and “Yikes, I bet this will make my tinnitus act up,” and “is the perm lady watching me? I should buy something to not look suspicious.”

In the end, I walked away with two Dragon Farts (they were buy-one-get-one-free!) and the comfort of retaining my fingers, as that firework does not  explode.

I didn’t realize it, but I did lose something when that Black Cat tried eating my fingers. No, not my fashion sense (because biker shorts will never die!). Back in ’91 I kept all my digits, thankfully, but lost that passion. Lost that invincibility of being young. And while the names are entertaining and the idea of a fly-by-night fireworks shop were fascinating, that passion was something I couldn’t recapture.

I was reminded of my one-time passion for shotgunning beers or my obsession with tracking down regional candy bars. In all those cases, it was good (for my liver and my teeth) that I lost that passion. But do we lose passion for good things too? It worried me that things I’m passionate about now—writing, my wife, attempting to burn the house down cooking dinner—will also just become dusty nostalgia some day. And the scariest part, just like my love of fireworks, there’s no way to know it’s coming. Worse, there’s nothing I can do about it.

[Originally appeared in We Who Are About to Die]

June 28, 2011

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