The Spectacle of a
Lifetime
Non-fiction by Jon
Kleinman
The procession of
chopped hogs thundering down Mayfair Road Kawasaki
My childhood
neighborhood was the usual suburban mix of doctors, lawyers and the occasional
teacher. Volvos –often emblazoned with Ivy League college stickers– were the
motor vehicle of choice. When a nurse and a husky, bearded supermarket manager moved
into the Levinson’s old house, they seemed to fit right in. The Ford Econoline
with the “Sit on a happy face!” bumper sticker raised a few eyebrows, but the
new couple had easily made friends with everyone on the block. The approaching
brigade of Harley riders were causing some to have second thoughts. Our new
neighbor, case of Budweiser under one arm, rushed out to the yard to greet his
pals.
“Hey, Boo-boo! Longtime, man!”
“Gimme a six pack, bro! Where’s
the old lady?”
“When did you get that
front-end chromed out?”
“As soon as I can scrape
up the dough, I’m gonna get me a 1200 Shovelhead!”
Engines were killed,
kickstands shoved down, and the bikers and their girlfriends all converged on
our neighbor’s lawn. Beers were passed around and popped open, and the air was
filled with the sound of backslaps and raucous laughter. Almost immediately,
parents tried to keep their kids distracted.
“Why don’t you help your
mother with the corn and potatoes?”
“I could use a hand
setting up this grill!”
As it started getting
dark, it became clear that our colorful guests planned to do more than just drink
beer and talk shop about their Harleys. As soon as the first few skyrockets
shrieked into the evening air, kids were drawn like flies to honey. No force on
earth could get kids to ignore fireworks on the Fourth of July! In our
neighborhood, Independence Day was traditionally honored with sparklers, smoke
bombs and maybe a few bottlerockets. My neighbor and his pals, however, were
gearing up for a pyrotechnical display whose depth, breadth and sheer
destructive power totally outclassed anything we’d ever previously witnessed.
Groundflowers hissed in
the street, throwing up showers of colored sparks. Roman candles spit fireballs
into the night sky. Strings of firecrackers filled the air with thundering,
skull-rattling explosions. All the neighborhood kids, including me and my pals,
applauded wildly as round after round of heavy artillery lit up the night. The
bikers swaggered around the dark, smoky street with practiced nonchalance –
they were the stars that night, and they knew it.
As far as me and my pals
were concerned, the night was shaping up to be the greatest Fourth of July in
history. However, we soon found out that not everyone in the neighborhood
shared our sentiments. Sometime around 10 PM , the festivities were interrupted
by the telltale flashing lights of a police cruiser.
“Some schmuck called the
cops!” grunted a pimply teenager in a Van Halen T-shirt. He spat into the
street to emphasize his disgust. A few kids started booing as an officer
stepped out of the Crown Vic. He had the squared shoulders and puffed out chest
of a man who’s certain he’s on the side of law and order. The bikers – no
strangers to run-ins with The Man – just rolled their eyes and took it in
stride.
“Complaints about the
noise….damage to property…..litter in the street….”
That was all I could
make out as the cop solemnly lectured our neighbor. The two of them talked for
some time. Finally, the policeman walked back to his squad car.
“I don’t want to have to
come back here!” he glowered, before pulling away. My neighbor and his pals
formed a huddle and pondered their next move. The kids all waited with baited
breath, wondering what would happen next. Suddenly, the huddle broke and a
ragged cheer went up as my neighbor headed into his garage. The hooting got
louder as he emerged with a big 20 gallon metal garbage can. At first I didn’t
understand what was happening, but as my neighbor placed the trash can in the
middle of the street and began filling it with fireworks, delicious chills of
fear and excitement ran up and down my spine.
Motorcycles, explosions,
disrespect for authority – in my fourteen-year-old mind I was witnessing the
spectacle of a lifetime. The grave-looking throng of adults gathered on the
sidewalk seemed to feel differently. People murmured nervously, pulled cars
into their garages, and some of the smaller children were dragged – kicking and
screaming of course - into the safety of their homes. A sweaty, anxious man
dressed in khakis and a golf shirt tried to dissuade the bikers from igniting
the garbage can, but his pleas were just met with derisive jeers.
“Stand back! Move far away!” my father warned.
My pals and I took his
advice and ducked behind some bushes in front of my house. More cheers went up
as my neighbor dropped a lit match into the garbage pail and ran for cover. My
friends and I hunkered down, ready for ecstacy, Armageddon, or whatever came
next. At first, the trashcan just sputtered and gave off smoke. Then, without warning,
it erupted into an orgy of explosions that strained pacemakers and gave at
least one household pet a nervous breakdown. The ground actually seemed to shake
as hundreds of firecrackers and bottle rockets flew in every possible direction.
After about ten minutes of pyrotechnical mayhem, the barrage began to fizzle
out. Thick clouds of smoke hovered over the street as all the kids gave the
bikers a standing ovation.
At that point, the
parents on the block decided it was time to take back the reins. My pals and I
were ushered into our respective homes while our fathers made sure all the
nearby lawns were free of smoking debris. Later, I could hear the sinister rumble
of V-Twin engines as my neighbor’s buddies roared off into the night, never to
be seen on our block again. The next day, my neighbor had morphed back into a
suburban homeowner. He spent a few hours cleaning his yard and sweeping up the
street. By late afternoon, all evidence of the previous night’s debauchery had
been cleansed. My parents and the other adults on the street silently nodded in
approval. The street was clean and the bikers had all gone back to their outlaw
lairs. Peace and prosperity had returned to Mayfair Road
Or something like that. The
fallout from that spectacular Fourth was swept out of the street, but not out
of my mind. For a brief moment, the hermetically sealed bubble that encased our
neighborhood had been torn open. I had glimpsed a dangerous, yet exhilarating,
new world. Deep down in my psyche, I knew that someday I’d return there–in
search of ecstacy, Armageddon or whatever came next.
