Hello, I am the man who’s been setting off fireworks right outside your window for the past two weeks! Of course I am a man. I’m so glad you popped your head out to say hi. I heard you asking me to stop at around 3 A.M. and got scared, because 3 A.M. is the witching hour, and I mistook your wails for those of a spooky ghost. Now that it’s almost 5 A.M., I know you’re no ghost. Because at 4:37 A.M., ghosts all have to go back to their ghost jobs. Yes, I believe in ghosts, and that they operate according to a very specific timetable, and that they have little ghost jobs and drive little ghost cars in their little ghost city. I guess it’s more of a ghost town. So, yes, I think ghosts are real, but I am also the insane man lighting pyrotechnic devices outside your window at ungodly hours, so this should not surprise you.
I can hear you asking through my completely unnecessary orgy of light and sound, “Is this a protest? Is this belatedly for the Fourth of July?” I want to assure you that I have no agenda. I don’t believe in anything other than that when I die, my consciousness will be inserted into a Bolivian dachshund named Pepito. He lives in a house full of animals in downtown La Paz. Pepito is alive now, and when I take over his body, his original consciousness will move to the cat’s body. The cat’s consciousness will move to the goldfish, the goldfish’s to the parakeet, and so on and so forth. When I am in Pepito’s body, I will be one of those influencer dogs who rides skateboards. I believe this because I am a man purposely setting off explosives in a residential area at four in the morning.
Through the wall of fog that my light extravaganza erects, I hear you asking what am I doing here. I am the Fireworks Man, and I do fireworks, man. I also do kids’ parties, bar mitzvahs, quinceañeras, and divorce. Fireworks Man is also divorced, man. But that’s O.K.—Helen and I never saw eye to eye, because I accidentally blew one of my eyes out while lighting fireworks at her uncle Chet’s funeral. They all said, “There’s nothing more distracting than fireworks at the end of a eulogy, Lester.” But I proved them wrong, because there is at least one thing that’s more distracting, and that is to have one of your guests blow his eye out at the end of the eulogy. And not even an important guest. The deceased’s niece’s boyfriend needs an ambulance—how distracting is that? Not as distracting as the amazing amount of nonlethal gunpowder I ignite outside your window every night for no reason.
What’s that? Sorry, I can barely hear you over that big explode-y firework I just set off that goes “Boom!” and then a few little ones just sizzle after. Why am I here? Well, long story short, fireworks were invented in China during the Song dynasty. Which explains why they go so well with music. Thank you for reminding me. I am now going to play the marches of John Philip Sousa, but since I am completely naked and armed with nothing but a matchbox and a satchel full of Roman candles, I am just going to sing them at you intermittently as I tell you my life story. I believe I was put on this Earth to light up some black-market bombettes outside your goddam window forever or until I leave this Earth in a magnificent display of light and sound that goes “BANG!” and “BOOM!” and “PEW!,” and then crescendos into a massive star of purple light with a golden center and small pirouetting green lights around it. And that goes something like “BAZOOOOOOOOM!” And when you’re, like, “Oh wow, that’s the last one,” I’ll come out of nowhere with a couple of additional colorful explosions for about five to ten more minutes.
I am the Fireworks Man and I live outside your window now. I’ll be here tonight and tomorrow night and every night except next Tuesday, because I have to go to a thing at my sister’s.
“BOOM!”
