Fireworks

I’ve never been one who much understood the appeal of fireworks. When I was a child, the noise bothered me, and the actual displays were always rather disappointing. I’m not sure exactly what my demanding little mind wished to see, but its desires went unmet. I just remember anticipating boring evenings, sitting in itchy grass that clung to my sweaty legs and swatting mosquitoes, every time I was invited to a fireworks display. More often than not, the “grand finale” was nothing but a huge boom that forced me to cover my ears and shut my eyes, so that I never saw if the lights were worth the noise. My one big hope was that an ice cream man might show up, and I’d be treated to a Fudgsicle.

This year, Bob got it into his head that he had to go see the Macy's Fourth of July fireworks display in Manhattan, and he, of course, wasn’t going to do this without dragging me along. He often drags me along to things I don’t think I want to do. Sometimes I’m convinced it’s just so he can say, “I told you so,” when I end up enjoying myself immensely, but I know it's really just because he wants to share everything with me. (Luckily, he’s not allowed to drag me into the hospital rooms with him these days to view mangled bodies.)

So off we went (despite the fact it meant getting anything more than about five hours of sleep before having to get up and work today was going to be impossible) to a prime spot on the closed ramp of the FDR Dr. We had a perfect view of the East River. We were even armed with some 3-D glasses a couple of cops had given us on 23rd St. The problem was, we had over two hours to kill before the fireworks were expected to begin, and for some inexplicable reason, I hadn’t brought a book with me.

I wondered if I could overcome my shyness long enough to go join a group of people who had at least been smart enough to bring a deck of cards, while Bob said to me, “No, no, no. We don’t need books or cards. We’re here for the full experience.” Well, if this “full experience” meant sitting on an itchy cement barrier, bottom getting sorer by the minute; regretting my choice of a short sundress to beat the heat, which made maneuvering said barrier an activity likely to attract perverts interested in beating more than the heat; and hoping an ice cream man might come along, knowing full well he wouldn’t; it was an experience I would willingly have foregone.

I’m not sure exactly when things changed for the better. All I know is that they did. First, we became involved in worrying about the disappearance of two teenaged girls from California who’d gone off in search of a bathroom, and who had infuriated the mother in charge of them by turning off their cell phone, so she couldn’t reach them. Meanwhile, their friend who had stayed behind, was busy telling the mother that the Fourth of July is the day more people are killed than any other of the year (great statistic, if it’s true). I have to admit a secret (and crass) wish that we might be witnesses to something truly interesting (but that would, of course, turn out all right in the end).

Suddenly, teenagers having returned safely and sulking over the mother’s anger, we were sitting next to six-year-old Destiny and her eight-year-old sister Dominique, whose impatience and excitement became contagious. Destiny could spot fireworks in the distance being set off in Brooklyn and wanted to know why they were so far away. Bob explained they weren’t “our” fireworks, which caused her to become even more impatient. She had a point. Why did Brooklyn get to have fireworks before we did?

But, at long last, the show began. What was it like? Did the noise bother me? Was I disappointed? All I can do is quote Destiny, whose first comment was, “This is like spring flowers,” and whose final comment after many, many “This is so cools!” and “Those look like jellyfish,” and “Look at all the cubes,” was, “This is better than a rainbow!” Next time Bob wants to drag me to something I don’t think I want to do, I’m going, and I’m bringing along little Destiny to help me do it right.