Hi Everyone:
     In honor of our national holiday, Independence Day, I am once again posting a short story that I wrote. It is presented here for your amusement. 

     If you haven't read it before, I think you will enjoy it. In any event, don't forget to hang out the flag on July 4th.
          Josh

ONE TOO MANY FIFTHS ON THE FOURTH

By         

Josh Truxton

            Summer arrived early at Pelican Cove. In most years, the humidity remained low and the temperature hovered in the low eighties until the middle of May. That’s when the last of the snow-birds packed and left Florida’s beaches to the locals. This year, the man upstairs played his little joke on everybody. The southern half of the State had been under a severe drought warning for two years; this year, before April finished its first week, temperature gauges in Pelican Cove hit ninety degrees before noon; the few clumps of grass that dared poke through their sandy base looked brown, battered, and brittle. By the end of May, temperatures and tempers hovered in the high damns.

            Howard Ditz and his wife Betty migrated to Pelican Cove to escape Detroit’s bitter winters; now Betty regretted their decision. Today, as she lifted cereal bowls from the kitchen cabinet she mused; I wish I could convince Howie to sell this place. We could rent a nice apartment up north during the summer and come to Florida when the first snow falls. If only he weren’t so stubborn. He’ll never admit we made a mistake buying this place. For two cents I’d burn it down, then we’d have to move. Betty filled the bowls and placed them on the breakfast table, and looked up to see him bare-footing it down the hallway from their bedroom. She frowned at the sight of him, wearing yesterday’s brown shorts with the coffee stain next to the zipper, and without a shirt to cover his hairy chest and beer belly. “Howie, I wish you’d put a shirt on when you come to the table. What’ll the neighbors think?”

            “What neighbors? The only one left is Buddy Batch and I’ll bet ten to one, he ain’t wearing one neither. He don’t want anyone to miss seeing his Semper Fi. Tattoo. That jerk got tattooed and then tried to enlist—they rejected him.”  He lifted his right leg and swung it over the chair-back, then planted his backside on the seat. “Hey Babe, where’s the paper?”

            Betty poured some milk into a pitcher and brought it to the table. “I don’t know; it’s usually here by now. I checked the front yard and the shrubs. If it doesn’t come by the time we finish eating I’ll call.”

            They ate in silence, watching Headline News on the small kitchen TV. When they finished, Howard poured a second mug of coffee to take along, and leaving Betty to clear the table, strolled outside. With hardly a glance at the flat ocean waters, he crossed the driveway separating his place from the one next door. He banged a fist against the frame of Buddy’s screen door. “Hey, Batch! Are you up yet?” 

            From somewhere in the dark interior a voice called, “Yeah, come on in!”

            Barefooted, Howard entered and walked on sticky linoleum through the cramped living-room toward the light at the back of the house. Unlike the neat kitchen Betty kept, Batch’s kitchen always carried the aroma of rancid grease and rotten eggs. The big man sat at his kitchen table, a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, reading the morning paper. He wore tight shorts but nothing to hide the globe, anchor, and eagle tattooed on his chest. “I see you brought your own coffee, take a load off!” he said, pointing at a chair.  He held up a bottle of Wild Turkey, “Want me to sweeten it?”

            Howard extended his coffee mug and watched as Buddy topped it before bringing the bottle to his own lips and downing three big swallows. Putting the bottle on the table he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, patted it against the paper and said; “Do you know what our stupid assed city council did?”

            “No. We didn’t get a paper. The old lady is calling to give them hell.”

            Batch grinned. “Sure you did. It’s right here. I got it about an hour ago.”

            Howard shrugged, “Oh, so you’re a paper thief! I’ll bite; what did the counsel do?”

            “Hell! They canceled the Fourth of July, that’s what the dumb bastards did, on account of the drought. Here we got a whole ocean where it’s safe and they’re afraid of starting a fire. They say not having the fireworks will help balance their budget.”

            “Crap! That’s a damn shame!” Howie declared, reaching for the Wild Turkey. I been looking forward to that. Hell every kid in town is sure to be disappointed. Balance the budget my ass. That’s what they done when they fired all them useless cops and firemen!” He tilted the bottle and drank. When he finished he banged the bottle down. “We ain’t gonna let the bastards get away with that! We’ll get our own rockets.”

            Buddy reached for the bottle. “What do you mean—we?”

            “Hell, Batch, if you don’t go along with this, you ain’t got a hair on your ass.”

            Buddy shrugged and raised the bottle. “Okay, count me in.” He took another swig. “It’s a good thing me and Heather split. I got a feeling there’s gonna be hell to pay over this.”

            Howard grabbed the bottle and drained it, “Semper Fi, Buddy.”

           

            The next afternoon the two men climbed into Howie’s Ram 1500 and headed south to find what they needed. A saw-buck shy of two-hundred dollars later, they returned with a treasure trove of star-burst rockets, Roman candles, and half-a-dozen strings of fire-crackers, plus two bottles of Wild Turkey.

            “Howie, what’s your old lady gonna say about this?”

            “What Betty don’t know won’t hurt her none.”

            Buddy opened a new bottle of Wild Turkey “Yeah, how you gonna keep her from finding out?”

            “I’ve been thinking about that, and I figure the best thing to do is send her up to Detroit to visit her sister. She don’t give a rat’s ass for this heat anyway. Since your main squeeze snatched the Chevy, we can stash this stuff in your garage.”

            Everything went according to plan. Betty went north and the two men drank there merry way toward the big day. They finished their second bottle at midnight on July 3^rd, and then unsteadily meandered into Buddy’s garage.

“Why don’t we load all this stuff in your Ram and drive down to the beach?”

            “No dice, someone might hear; besides, I ain’t gonna chance getting stuck in the damn soft sand.”

            Buddy slung two strings of fire-crackers over each shoulder. As he stooped to pick up the rest, his Marlboro touched the wick; with the first pop his eyes widened, he threw up both arms sending the strings back into the garage where they set off the Roman candles; they fired hitting the star-bursts.

            Howie hollered, “You idiot!” Where’s the garden hose?”

            “In the garage, asshole!”

            “Stupid moron!”

Rockets flew in six different directions, lighting up the garage and progressing from there. Buddy screamed, “You dumb jerk! Get a fire extinguisher!” The two men half ran and half staggered toward the beach.

            “Dummy!”

            “Screw-up!”

            “Damn fool marine-reject!”

            “Jack-ass!”

            “Blockhead!”

            The next morning’s paper lamented the loss of two beachfront cottages due to the night’s mischief. To safe-guard the community, a pair of drunks were now detained.