Memoirs of the Mundane - 'Murica
Disclaimer: in a break from the normal format of my Memoirs of the Mundane 'series' these events did not take place this year.
__________________
Perhaps this won't qualify as mundane at all, but then again, perhaps Independence Day is one of the most mundane holidays? It's one that doesn't really change—every year people seem to celebrate by doing the same few things. Perhaps it is because of its mundaneness that we refer to it more commonly as a date: 'the 4th of July' rather than by what it actually is: America's Independence Day. But I'll leave that for you to decide.
Let me introduce you to the little town of Evanston, Wyoming. Population about 12,000. A strange little town that I've had a strange little connection with for more of my lifetime than I should care to admit. With a short 80 minute sprint up I-80 from SLC, most of my fellow Utahns will know of Evanston for two reasons. The first as being an alcohol oasis—an escape from the dry 3.2% Utah beer. And the second, fireworks. With more firework stands than grocery stores, Evanston is the place to go when you feel like getting soused and want to blow up your neighborhood. And this is where my story begins.
We rolled in to the droll little town of Evanston, Wyoming just before sundown. A town that is no more than a truck stop blip on the vast sprawling snake of I-80. Unless, unless, you're a staggering booze-hound with a lust for gunpowder; then to you, Evanston is Mecca. Your own personal Disneyland. And what a wild ride it is. Now, usually, I try to spend as little time as possible in this place. And let me tell you, steer clear of the Walmart there. When Dante was writing his grand poem, he forgot to mention that the circles of Hell—all nine of them—are located in Evanston's Walmart. So now that you've been warned, I'll tell you what I was doing in a place like this on the night of Independence Day. Truthfully, I don't really know. And I ponder it regularly. I certainly wasn't there for the booze, so I suppose I was there for the fireworks? Maybe I was there for the chaos?
My crew and I scoured the town, looking for a place to watch the s**t hit the fan (little did we know).
With our spot secured at last, we settled in for the only moments of peace we'd get for the next 5 hours. As we watched the sun slowly dip behind the horizon, the madness began. Slowly at first, with a few distant popping noises. But as the sky faded into darkness, the aerial explosions began to swell and crescendo like one of Bach's masterpieces.
As the sky reached total darkness, and the stars began to trickle out, we found ourselves surrounded. Surrounded by raging patriotic drunkards. Now, in many areas of this vast country, citizens view patriotism as respecting your country, honoring your heritage, being proud of where you live, exercising your constitutional rights, and whatever else patriots do. But in this town, patriotism is measured by only one thing: "how much s**t you can blow up."
Somehow we'd staked our "land claim" at little too well when we surveyed the city. My gang and I were in the thick of it. 100's of people poured in around us, fighting for any inch of turf that they could stick a bottle rocket into. The sky filled with smoke—thicker than a summer in Beijing. Impossible to see in that haze. Shrapnel rained down from the sky. Our evening of firework watching quickly became a test of ultimate dodgeball; dodging Roman Candles, dodging burning scraps of cardboard showering down upon us, and dodging two year olds wielding firecrackers. It looked like Nam all over again. I can tell you, I certainly have ptsd from it.
At the stroke of 10pm, the insanity around us slowly began to die off. My comrades and I crawled out from under the cover of our blankets to see if the 'war' was over. As it turns out, the pause was only to chug bottles of alcohol and unwrap more firepower as the city lit off their "big" fireworks. I took this moment of relative calm to survey the creatures around us. To my left, I heard a chorus of chanting as a 70yr old mustached man—adorned in an obscene shirt that said "Make American Great Again or I Will" with an image of a naked stripper pole dancing, with two AK-47's coming out of her breasts instead of nipples—leaned under the tailgate of a truck to chug half a gallon of whiskey from a keg. My friends and I looked on in horror. Is this what America is all about?
As the city's fireworks came to an end, all hell broke loose (someone must have left the doors at the Walmart open). Remember how I put "big" in quotation marks when referring to the city's fireworks in the last paragraph? That's because the city fireworks paled in comparison to the massive fireworks the citizens of Evanston were now blasting off. Had the Ancient Chinese seen this madness, they would have rethought inventing fireworks altogether.
"Maybe this is the apocalypse," I thought, as the air filled with smoke, drunken bellowing, explosions, and flames. The scene was on par with the horrors of Dresden.
Sirens shouted out from the distance. We turned to look as they drew closer. The parade of fire engines raced by us; I followed their path with my gaze, to discover that someone had managed to set the entire hill on fire. Giant flames leaped up, devouring the hillside as people laughed and cheered. "We've gotta get out of this place!" my friend Joe yelled. Looking for cover, we began to run up a steep slope towards the spot where we'd parked the car. "Sweet Jesus!" my devoutly religious friend Steph yelled, as she stopped dead in her tracks. The rest of us stopped to investigate the cause of her unusual profanity. Looking back over my shoulder, I came to realize what she was on about. There, fifty feet away, was a three foot tall statue (or rather firework) of Jesus spraying jets of multicolored sparks out of the palms of his hands, while balls of flame launched out of the top of the cross he was on. A sight I will surely never forget, and perhaps, nor will He at judgement day.
After ducking and dodging flaming debris and flying beer bottles, we managed to make it to the car. At this point our ears were so deafened from the sounds of explosions that we were barely able to converse with one another. I pulled on the back door handle of the car with no success. I turned to look at Steph and through the thunderous roar of explosions, I was just able to make out these words, "keys, locked, car." The accompanying look of terror on her face filled in all the gaps I needed to know. Our other friend, Joe, quickly caught on to the situation, and we decided to book it to the nearest place of shelter, a carport at a nearby house.
Once under cover of the carport's roof, we were able to catch our breath and take in our surroundings. The house appeared to be empty, as the only light to be seen was the reflection of nearby fireworks dancing off the window panes. The carport was also lacking a car. We felt relieved, and for the first time since the sun had set, began to even enjoy the spectacle from our vantage point overlooking part of the town.
A voice croaked out from behind us. We jumped as we turned to see where it originated from. Behind us in the carport sat an elderly man in a rocking chair, his figure only discernible by the faint glow of the cigarette between his lips, and the occasional flash of a nearby firework. He gently tossed his cigarette to the ground and quelled the burning ember with the heel of his boot. He sat there silently for a moment, peering out at us from under the brim of his cowboy hat with his leathery and weathered face.
Finally the old man stood and said, "Judgin' by thee looks of yer sneakers, you folks ain't frum around these parts, is ye?"
"No, we're from Utah," Joe said. "Do you mind if we stand here for a minute? We locked our keys in the car and need to try to call a locksmith."
"Well, I spose as long as ye ain't here to take away my guns, you can stay."
Joe turned to look at me quizzically, with raised eyebrows. I shrugged.
Then the man spoke again, "Well, there probably ain't gonna be no locksmiths round ta'night. Theys all busy cele-bratin' with their families. Big deal round these parts, y'know? Anyhow, ain't no way theys could even git ter yer car with all these 'splosions goin' on."
The three of us looked at each other in dismay. The old man was probably right. It'd be almost impossible to drive anywhere in this town with the amount of drunks and fireworks clogging up the streets. I glanced down at my watch. Five minutes to midnight. And we appeared to be trapped there indefinitely.
"Do you have any ideas of how we can get out of here?" I asked the old man.
He sat and pondered for a moment. "Do ye have eensurance on that car?"
Steph looked at him suspiciously and said, "yes."
"Then hold on gist a mi-nute, I's'll go make a phone call."
The old man shuffled towards the back of the carport and disappeared through a door into the house.
The three of us turned and looked at each other, confused about the old man's inquiry about the insurance of the car.
At the stroke of midnight, things really got crazy. The grand finale of fireworks, it appeared. Or perhaps the grand finale of the town of Evanston, as half of it appeared to be on fire at that point.
A barrage of rockets sailed through the sky, simultaneously exploding in the air, leaving no semblance of night sky to be found. The three of us looked on in awe.
After what seemed like ages, the old man finally shuffled back. "Any mi-nute now, my nay-boy Chuck will be round to help yous city slickers out." He slowly sat back into his rocking chair, flicked open the large cooler next to him, and popped the cap off of a cold one.
"Want a beer while yous wait?" he asked.
"No thank you" I responded, "we don't drink."
"Don't drink?! Don't drink?! I knew there was sumthin' suspeeshious about yous. You some kinda commies or sumthin'?"
Not knowing how to respond, we stood there awkwardly for a moment.
"Yous city slickers call yurselfs 'muricans? But ye's don't even drink beer?!"
Just then a tall man dressed from head to toe in camo came strolling across the lawn with a rifle slung over his shoulder. The old man spotted him and growled "Chuck, Chuck, ovry here."
"These is the city slickers I told yous about on the tele-phone."
Chuck looked us up and down and said "Well, c'mon now, lets go get yer car."
We thanked the old man for his help. He scoffed at us and mumbled something about 'muricans and beer as we went off with Chuck.
Though the finale was over, there was no shortage of fireworks still being set off. Once again, we had to dodge our way back to the car, being careful not to step on drunks passed out on the sidewalks, while simultaneously avoiding objects falling from the sky.
"This is my car," Steph told Chuck. Without saying a word, Chuck swung the rifle off of his shoulder, and with one swift 'thwack' bashed the driver's side window out with the butt of the gun.
The window shattered into a thousand pieces as we jumped back in shock.
"What the F***?!" Steph shouted, taking an understandable deviation from her piety.
"Yer welcome," Chuck said, as he turned around and walked off into the night.
Steph burst into tears of shock and rage at this point. Joe and I ran around the car to console her and confront Chuck, but he was already gone; vanished like lightning into the thick cloud of firework smoke. "Come on Steph, let's just get the hell out of here!" Joe said.
We all jumped into the car and drove off.
Getting out of there was another matter. Steph had to swerve the car around half naked drunks running wildly through the streets, while trying to avoid fireworks discharging all around us. I will now make a shameless plug for my friend Steph—if you need a stunt driver for the next James Bond movie, give her a call!
Just as we were about to escape the town and hit the interstate, Evanston go its last jab in at us. A perfectly shot bottle rocket screamed right through Steph's busted out window and hit Joe square in the shoulder. The rocket fell to the floor, and exploded. The explosion caused the floor mat to ignite, and Joe screamed as he tried to stamp it out. Fortunately, after a moment or two, he got it out.
Exhausted, covered in burns, half-deaf, and traumatized, we made our way home.
I hope, and pray (though not to firework Jesus) that the rest of my Independence Days will be mundane!
__________________
Perhaps this won't qualify as mundane at all, but then again, perhaps Independence Day is one of the most mundane holidays? It's one that doesn't really change—every year people seem to celebrate by doing the same few things. Perhaps it is because of its mundaneness that we refer to it more commonly as a date: 'the 4th of July' rather than by what it actually is: America's Independence Day. But I'll leave that for you to decide.
Let me introduce you to the little town of Evanston, Wyoming. Population about 12,000. A strange little town that I've had a strange little connection with for more of my lifetime than I should care to admit. With a short 80 minute sprint up I-80 from SLC, most of my fellow Utahns will know of Evanston for two reasons. The first as being an alcohol oasis—an escape from the dry 3.2% Utah beer. And the second, fireworks. With more firework stands than grocery stores, Evanston is the place to go when you feel like getting soused and want to blow up your neighborhood. And this is where my story begins.
We rolled in to the droll little town of Evanston, Wyoming just before sundown. A town that is no more than a truck stop blip on the vast sprawling snake of I-80. Unless, unless, you're a staggering booze-hound with a lust for gunpowder; then to you, Evanston is Mecca. Your own personal Disneyland. And what a wild ride it is. Now, usually, I try to spend as little time as possible in this place. And let me tell you, steer clear of the Walmart there. When Dante was writing his grand poem, he forgot to mention that the circles of Hell—all nine of them—are located in Evanston's Walmart. So now that you've been warned, I'll tell you what I was doing in a place like this on the night of Independence Day. Truthfully, I don't really know. And I ponder it regularly. I certainly wasn't there for the booze, so I suppose I was there for the fireworks? Maybe I was there for the chaos?
My crew and I scoured the town, looking for a place to watch the s**t hit the fan (little did we know).
With our spot secured at last, we settled in for the only moments of peace we'd get for the next 5 hours. As we watched the sun slowly dip behind the horizon, the madness began. Slowly at first, with a few distant popping noises. But as the sky faded into darkness, the aerial explosions began to swell and crescendo like one of Bach's masterpieces.
As the sky reached total darkness, and the stars began to trickle out, we found ourselves surrounded. Surrounded by raging patriotic drunkards. Now, in many areas of this vast country, citizens view patriotism as respecting your country, honoring your heritage, being proud of where you live, exercising your constitutional rights, and whatever else patriots do. But in this town, patriotism is measured by only one thing: "how much s**t you can blow up."
Somehow we'd staked our "land claim" at little too well when we surveyed the city. My gang and I were in the thick of it. 100's of people poured in around us, fighting for any inch of turf that they could stick a bottle rocket into. The sky filled with smoke—thicker than a summer in Beijing. Impossible to see in that haze. Shrapnel rained down from the sky. Our evening of firework watching quickly became a test of ultimate dodgeball; dodging Roman Candles, dodging burning scraps of cardboard showering down upon us, and dodging two year olds wielding firecrackers. It looked like Nam all over again. I can tell you, I certainly have ptsd from it.
At the stroke of 10pm, the insanity around us slowly began to die off. My comrades and I crawled out from under the cover of our blankets to see if the 'war' was over. As it turns out, the pause was only to chug bottles of alcohol and unwrap more firepower as the city lit off their "big" fireworks. I took this moment of relative calm to survey the creatures around us. To my left, I heard a chorus of chanting as a 70yr old mustached man—adorned in an obscene shirt that said "Make American Great Again or I Will" with an image of a naked stripper pole dancing, with two AK-47's coming out of her breasts instead of nipples—leaned under the tailgate of a truck to chug half a gallon of whiskey from a keg. My friends and I looked on in horror. Is this what America is all about?
As the city's fireworks came to an end, all hell broke loose (someone must have left the doors at the Walmart open). Remember how I put "big" in quotation marks when referring to the city's fireworks in the last paragraph? That's because the city fireworks paled in comparison to the massive fireworks the citizens of Evanston were now blasting off. Had the Ancient Chinese seen this madness, they would have rethought inventing fireworks altogether.
"Maybe this is the apocalypse," I thought, as the air filled with smoke, drunken bellowing, explosions, and flames. The scene was on par with the horrors of Dresden.
Sirens shouted out from the distance. We turned to look as they drew closer. The parade of fire engines raced by us; I followed their path with my gaze, to discover that someone had managed to set the entire hill on fire. Giant flames leaped up, devouring the hillside as people laughed and cheered. "We've gotta get out of this place!" my friend Joe yelled. Looking for cover, we began to run up a steep slope towards the spot where we'd parked the car. "Sweet Jesus!" my devoutly religious friend Steph yelled, as she stopped dead in her tracks. The rest of us stopped to investigate the cause of her unusual profanity. Looking back over my shoulder, I came to realize what she was on about. There, fifty feet away, was a three foot tall statue (or rather firework) of Jesus spraying jets of multicolored sparks out of the palms of his hands, while balls of flame launched out of the top of the cross he was on. A sight I will surely never forget, and perhaps, nor will He at judgement day.
After ducking and dodging flaming debris and flying beer bottles, we managed to make it to the car. At this point our ears were so deafened from the sounds of explosions that we were barely able to converse with one another. I pulled on the back door handle of the car with no success. I turned to look at Steph and through the thunderous roar of explosions, I was just able to make out these words, "keys, locked, car." The accompanying look of terror on her face filled in all the gaps I needed to know. Our other friend, Joe, quickly caught on to the situation, and we decided to book it to the nearest place of shelter, a carport at a nearby house.
Once under cover of the carport's roof, we were able to catch our breath and take in our surroundings. The house appeared to be empty, as the only light to be seen was the reflection of nearby fireworks dancing off the window panes. The carport was also lacking a car. We felt relieved, and for the first time since the sun had set, began to even enjoy the spectacle from our vantage point overlooking part of the town.
A voice croaked out from behind us. We jumped as we turned to see where it originated from. Behind us in the carport sat an elderly man in a rocking chair, his figure only discernible by the faint glow of the cigarette between his lips, and the occasional flash of a nearby firework. He gently tossed his cigarette to the ground and quelled the burning ember with the heel of his boot. He sat there silently for a moment, peering out at us from under the brim of his cowboy hat with his leathery and weathered face.
Finally the old man stood and said, "Judgin' by thee looks of yer sneakers, you folks ain't frum around these parts, is ye?"
"No, we're from Utah," Joe said. "Do you mind if we stand here for a minute? We locked our keys in the car and need to try to call a locksmith."
"Well, I spose as long as ye ain't here to take away my guns, you can stay."
Joe turned to look at me quizzically, with raised eyebrows. I shrugged.
Then the man spoke again, "Well, there probably ain't gonna be no locksmiths round ta'night. Theys all busy cele-bratin' with their families. Big deal round these parts, y'know? Anyhow, ain't no way theys could even git ter yer car with all these 'splosions goin' on."
The three of us looked at each other in dismay. The old man was probably right. It'd be almost impossible to drive anywhere in this town with the amount of drunks and fireworks clogging up the streets. I glanced down at my watch. Five minutes to midnight. And we appeared to be trapped there indefinitely.
"Do you have any ideas of how we can get out of here?" I asked the old man.
He sat and pondered for a moment. "Do ye have eensurance on that car?"
Steph looked at him suspiciously and said, "yes."
"Then hold on gist a mi-nute, I's'll go make a phone call."
The old man shuffled towards the back of the carport and disappeared through a door into the house.
The three of us turned and looked at each other, confused about the old man's inquiry about the insurance of the car.
At the stroke of midnight, things really got crazy. The grand finale of fireworks, it appeared. Or perhaps the grand finale of the town of Evanston, as half of it appeared to be on fire at that point.
A barrage of rockets sailed through the sky, simultaneously exploding in the air, leaving no semblance of night sky to be found. The three of us looked on in awe.
After what seemed like ages, the old man finally shuffled back. "Any mi-nute now, my nay-boy Chuck will be round to help yous city slickers out." He slowly sat back into his rocking chair, flicked open the large cooler next to him, and popped the cap off of a cold one.
"Want a beer while yous wait?" he asked.
"No thank you" I responded, "we don't drink."
"Don't drink?! Don't drink?! I knew there was sumthin' suspeeshious about yous. You some kinda commies or sumthin'?"
Not knowing how to respond, we stood there awkwardly for a moment.
"Yous city slickers call yurselfs 'muricans? But ye's don't even drink beer?!"
Just then a tall man dressed from head to toe in camo came strolling across the lawn with a rifle slung over his shoulder. The old man spotted him and growled "Chuck, Chuck, ovry here."
"These is the city slickers I told yous about on the tele-phone."
Chuck looked us up and down and said "Well, c'mon now, lets go get yer car."
We thanked the old man for his help. He scoffed at us and mumbled something about 'muricans and beer as we went off with Chuck.
Though the finale was over, there was no shortage of fireworks still being set off. Once again, we had to dodge our way back to the car, being careful not to step on drunks passed out on the sidewalks, while simultaneously avoiding objects falling from the sky.
"This is my car," Steph told Chuck. Without saying a word, Chuck swung the rifle off of his shoulder, and with one swift 'thwack' bashed the driver's side window out with the butt of the gun.
The window shattered into a thousand pieces as we jumped back in shock.
"What the F***?!" Steph shouted, taking an understandable deviation from her piety.
"Yer welcome," Chuck said, as he turned around and walked off into the night.
Steph burst into tears of shock and rage at this point. Joe and I ran around the car to console her and confront Chuck, but he was already gone; vanished like lightning into the thick cloud of firework smoke. "Come on Steph, let's just get the hell out of here!" Joe said.
We all jumped into the car and drove off.
Getting out of there was another matter. Steph had to swerve the car around half naked drunks running wildly through the streets, while trying to avoid fireworks discharging all around us. I will now make a shameless plug for my friend Steph—if you need a stunt driver for the next James Bond movie, give her a call!
Just as we were about to escape the town and hit the interstate, Evanston go its last jab in at us. A perfectly shot bottle rocket screamed right through Steph's busted out window and hit Joe square in the shoulder. The rocket fell to the floor, and exploded. The explosion caused the floor mat to ignite, and Joe screamed as he tried to stamp it out. Fortunately, after a moment or two, he got it out.
Exhausted, covered in burns, half-deaf, and traumatized, we made our way home.
I hope, and pray (though not to firework Jesus) that the rest of my Independence Days will be mundane!
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