We have had three nights planning the purchase of illegal fireworks; nothing could go wrong. Everybody in the car ride is as silent as if they just ripped a fart in a crowded subway train. We are going fifteen miles under the speed limit in a beat-up 1990 Toyota Corolla.
Every Illinois cop we’ve seen, we made a special note to pull out in front of them and thank them for their service. The reek of cheese ripples through the air, the Wisconsin border is fast approaching. As we enter the state, our stomachs are not having it, and we have to use the bathroom for a record-breaking six times in forty-five minutes.
We arrive at the side of the road to purchase the flamers (a code name); it feels like a prisoner finally making it to the end of the green mile and into the electric chair. We get out of the car. Someone’s stomach makes a funny noise. The three of us punch him in the gut and put him in the trunk – no need for the fireworks salesmen to ask any questions of us Illinois Goodfellas.
There is a man with an oversized Packers jersey sitting in a chair in front of a pretty big tent. “What can I do for ya cowboys?” The smell of whiskey and cheese seeps from his breath. Silence is our best friend. They don’t need to trace our voice back to us. We point to the fireworks on our T-shirts. The gentlemen expectorates on the ground and it ricochets off of my friend’s front leg. He looks back at us and nods for his apology.
“Excellent, I just need to make sure you are eighteen.”
That was not part of the plan. Then a group of gorgeous women no older than “eighteen” cut in line in front of us manly men. They show him their ID. He looks it over and smiles and gives it back to them and lets them in. He is about to slap one of them on the behind when he notices us paying attention; he unapologetically puts his hand out for our IDs.
We hand them over, and he opens up the tent and it’s like the fountain of youth. Everything you love and want to learn about fireworks packed into a tiny hot tent, naturally a very great idea. The girls and us make eye contact, they smile, then they notice the land of Lincoln on one of our shirts. They frown and shake their heads in disappointment.
We take what we think our car will hold. The man will only accept cash as it is not traced. We all wipe the sweat off of our foreheads in this 52-degree summer day in Wisconsin. We load it all in the back of the car. We hit the trunk to make sure our friend is not dead. “I’m good,” he whispers.
We take the back roads home. With the cops and drones on the highway, we figure it’s a safe bet. What should have taken us forty-five minutes takes us three hours. We make it home happy to have gotten away with our score. We let the person out of the trunk, who understandably used it as a toilet.
But a sad realization: we can’t light up the fireworks, as they are highly illegal in Illinois. We call our cousin Mark, who spent time in juvie, and he puts them on the black market known as Craigslist.
It was all worth it to avoid seventeen dollars and thirty-five minutes in prison.
