"Wait... I've got... Aerials, uh... Roman Candles, Spinners, Mines, " Bodhi dropped, on sandy knees, holding a beer, rifling through his backpack one-handed, a lit cigarette loosely between his lips. Flash-round, a wiry wick: "And Cherry Bombs."
___...
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TURNED OUT, I was weak, pliable around Bodhi. Tequila being passed. My muscles sore and screaming. My legs so exhausted I kept buckling. My sandy ass. Barefoot.
There was a group already, lazing around a low-burning bonfire. Blankets laid out. Shoes. Keys. Phones. Backpacks piling up. Everybody lounging, drinking. Bodhi made his rounds lazily—slapping, fist bumping, hugging. I forgot. Everybody liked Bodhi. Right. Gi had disappeared, Katie and Nate flirting openly. I nodded at Lilah. Hector appeared in a blur of boozy Spanish, helping swipe my sandy ass. Bodhi didn't say anything, but I caught him looking, clucking, jerking his chin again.
I followed him away, nursing another can of Bud. Mixing. Fuck, I was already woozy. My gaze on his backpack, drunkenly certain he had something prepared. "What did you bring?"
Fireworks?
"Wait... I've got... Aerials, uh... Roman Candles, Spinners, Mines, " Bodhi dropped, on sandy knees, holding a beer, rifling through his backpack one-handed, a lit cigarette loosely between his lips. Flash—round, a wiry wick: "And Cherry Bombs."
"Those are illegal, Brodhi!"
"A lot of shit is illegal!" he called back at Nate. It did resemble a cherry, dusty-red, its stem-wick a dark green. "They been illegal since 1966."
"Why..." My toes dug into the sand; I realized I was gnawing on my bottom lip. Butterflies fizzed up my chest, fluttering blurrily. "Why are they illegal?"
"Well, Cherry Bombs," he rasped, "are considered explosive, Jessamyn."
Instinctually, I pulled back.
And Bodhi snickered, set his Bud down. "Don't worry. Homemade, but I'm a professional, Cruz."
Sure. Yeah. Drunk, too. Busy unearthing a sand pail—filling it with water—and forking a few elongated fireworks into the sand, angled away, aimed up for the sky.
My vision was watery, skewing. Drunk.
"Everybody back up," he warned, brandishing a pink Bic. But I didn't back up. His voice softly demanding: "Jess."
Right. Heat flooded my body, but I stepped back. Reluctantly.
Bodhi leaned down—a muddy silhouette on a foggy beach—and I glimpsed its tailwind flicker, in a fluid swipe, hitting wick, wick, wick, catching, igniting; a snake-like hissing burning off.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Everything burst. Somebody cheered, and I looked up at a cloudy sky, brightly lit in a flood of shimmering sizzling. Smoke slanted in a slow gust of ocean air, lingering...
A flurry of Bottle Rockets set in cans of Budweiser—even I recognized. They flew; sprung up and away in quick snarling cuts, blasts echoing. Cheering.
