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| Do Not Try This At (My) Home |
Since the industry is officially in Hangover Time between Cannes and the holiday weekend, I thought I'd take a break from the usual profession-centric column and share a memory of a past holiday. If you aren't down for the flight of fancy, feel free to take a pass and check back next week.
First, I need to set the scene for you. I'm in my early '20s, trying to make it as a musician, working temp jobs after college. I'm broke from dealing with college loans, and I'm living in a terrible part of Philadelphia, known locally as Fishtown. (It's kind of like Brooklyn, all the way down to the recent revival and spike of real estate values with hipster gentrification.)
So I'm sitting out of my corner gun turret window, about a quarter of a mile away from an elevated train stop, because it's hot and I don't have air conditioning. I'm noodling on an acoustic guitar and trying to write a song. It's pretty much how I spent most of my evenings. I'm looking out at an empty lot with broken glass and drug paraphernalia, and that's when I see these two guys. (Don't worry, we're getting to the good/holiday part.)
They are, well, *painfully* drunk, in the way that's just hard to look at, because they are standing at angles that look wrong. They've got well-lit torches, which is kind of worrisome in any situation that isn't a movie set, and they also have a steel trash can.
Oh, one last thing. They've got fireworks.
Professional, end of the day at an amusement park level, fireworks. Stuff that goes up into the air and makes all sorts of pretty colors, and I have to think they stole some of it, because it's just not the stuff that you see sold to the general public.
Which they proceed to light, at random intervals and random angles, for the next hour and a half.
Which I watch, because how could you not? And I was struck by the following realizations.
1) They could easily end their own lives, or at the very least, seriously impact their future enjoyment of same, at any moment, really. Even if they weren't drunk, but especially more because they are.
2) They could easily end *my* life, in that I'm not very far away from them, and the right/wrong angle means I'm going to get incoming.
3) My choice of address means that there isn't going any real chance of police coming to my location.
Because luck and/or aphorisms about the kind feelings of God toward drunkards, the fireworks show ended without mayhem. The guys set off what they had, laughed like schoolchildren at everything they lit, then staggered off when they were done. I didn't get any songs written that night, but I did get a memory that will last a lifetime, even though it may have ruined me for every Fourth of July since.
After all, professional fireworks shows are great... but they do tend to lack a certain element of drama, right?
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