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The fourth of July was cool. It started, more or less, with a trip to Wisconsin for the good fireworks they don't sell here in Minnesota; Jacob, Al, and I were intent on blowing shit up proper. While checking out at Fireworks City in Baldwin, the woman ringing me up commented on my purchases. "Looks like we've got a connoiseur," she said. I smiled politely and handed her my money. I had done diligent calculations to make sure I would get the most bang for my buck: In my bag, I had 44 large explosions and several hundred smaller ones. But we weren't finished loading the trunk with contraband. A quick stop at one of Hudson's historic liquor stores solidified the fact that our fourth would be a good'n. Jacob and I sat in the car listening to Laura Nyro while Al gathered libations inside.

Hours later, having already severely diminished our bounties, and having just watched the soon-to-be-classic Pfrommer Goes To Work, we wandered back outside to light off some more fireworks. Several artillery shells later, while sitting on the pavement twisting the fuses of rockets together, around one in the morning, I heard a strange and unexpectedly authoritatian voice. "Hey guys," it said. I turned to my left and froze. "Whatcha doin'?" It was the Saint Paul Police, and we were busted.

The first thing that went through my mind was the list of laws we were breaking. The second was to respond with:

"Uhhh... Just lightin' off some fireworks... No good?" I asked.
"Uh, yeah. No good." Duh, went his words, falling off his tongue with a dull thud.

As we packed our unexploded treasures into a grocery bag for confiscation, the rest of our gang, who was still across the street, and hadn't noticed the officer's stealthy entry, sent a number of bottle rockets sailing over our heads. The officer was not too cool with this. He shone his flashlight in their direction and shouted to them: "Ya done!?" They scampered their way back into the apartment as confirmation that yes, they were indeed quite finished. It was about then that both I, and the officer, noticed my beer, which, after admitting my age, was tipped over. Shit. This was it. For a second there it looked like I was going to get off scot-free, but now I was totally boned. Fireworks are one thing. Unsafe, inebriated, underage fireworks are another. I was going to jail. I was sure of it.

"I appreciate your honesty," he said, and the next thing I knew, we were shaking hands, I was wishing him a happy belated fourth, and he was disappearing, with a bagful of fun, into the bushes, like Moonlight Graham.

And that's all that happened. That's the end of the story. We just went back upstairs and kept drinking more beer.