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I got home tonight at about quarter past nine. This was not bad; if not for traffic, I could have done the whole trip in three hours. But I am home from MA when I hatch a plan. This plan makes my admission of speeding home pale. It's something I've been thinking about for ages, deliberating, planning, basically beating around the bush. Where should I do it? I should wear all black and get a black duffel bag; my L.L. Bean backpack has a reflective strip on it fer chrissakes. Tonight is my birthday. Tonight I do it.
I carry my bags upstairs and set them down heavily on the floor. I turn my backpack upside-down and shake out the contents. Once it's empty, I put the six-pack of empty Guiness bottles in first. Then I grab a spoon—the largest spoon I own—for use as a trowel, and I shove it in my pocket. I empty my pockets of anything valuable: my PDA, my cell, my cordless headset all stay home rather than run the risk of being lost, destroyed, or confiscated. I have not worn a watch all weekend, so I now officially have nothing by which to reckon the time. Of the things that fell out of my bag, I grab my concert earplugs in case I will need them. I take my bike's squirt bottle, which I always store full in the fridge, in case I will need that, too. I grab my box of kitchen matches and then I go to my closet. In my closet are two brown paper grocery bags, which are filled to the brim with fireworks I purchased in South Carolina on my way back from Nawlins. I make my selections, zip up, and head outside with a few bags of garbage so that I look to be on some actual errand.
The night sky in New Jersey is something to remark upon. Not for its beauty, but for its vivid pinkness. It never gets dark here, and I have never been so aware of that fact as I am now. The illumination from my building lights up the construction lot where I planned to stage my crime like the cresting sun at dawn. I walk to the end of the parking lot where the dumpster is, my eyes straining over the fence that lines the construction site. It's too damn bright. Between the Turnpike and the Meadowlands Sports Complex, everything is illuminated and exposed. But I am damned if I am stopping now.
I walk to the other end of the parking lot and chance a look back, toward the street. There is a fucking minivan there, with its brights on, and flashing hazard lights as someone is loading or offloading it. Dammit. And I think it is the Super's. Shit. I am frozen, as if I have forgotten something very important in one of the trash bags I just threw out. But I'm cool; they haven't seen me. And they're not going to. I press myself against the station wagon that is the last car in the lot. I am all but at the entrance to the construction site, which is not closed off but is just generally forbidden. I slither along the side of the car, my body low, checking for eye contact from the direction of the minivan. I am only invisible in the direction they are in. Anyone could come up alongside me and see me. And if there were not a car parked opposite the station wagon I am crouched behind, I would be completely visible. But I move forward, and the fence ends before the lot does, so I can push through the tall brush there and I am now in the lot. Again, I am struck by how exposed I am. Anyone on the top floor of my building could see me if they pulled their eyes away from Sunday Night TV and took a look at where the modern pink sky hides ancient stars. There is not much cover, except for the fence itself and the tall grass that narrowly makes its way around the perimeter of the site. I've realized that if someone is looking for me, I will be seen.
I go into ninja hiding-in-plain-site mode and just fake being an idiot hiker who suddenly found himself in a construction site and must get out yes as fast as possible. I make my way to the southwest corner of the lot just as lights pull into the yard. FUCK. It is probably the owner of the minivan just turning around where they really shouldn't be, but I cannot chance it. My backpack will not hold any secrets if it is searched. I dive for the grass and shimmy up to the fence for cover. Thankfully, the weeds are thick over here. But I look behind myself and see that I have a clear line of sight to two back porches. Fuck again! There is one single tree here and I jump across a ditch and hide behind it until I am sure there is not a security guard on duty. The leaves sway across the porch light and make me wonder that the security guard doesn't happen to live in that house and now has a flashlight out sweeping for me. I don't see anything in the direction of the lot entrance anymore, so once I'm content there's no one on the back porch calling the po-lice, I continue to circle the perimeter. The southern side of the yard clearly has the best cover, and I make great use of it as I slink along the fence. The area behind the fence here does not appear to be anyone's property, and so would make a great exit/hiding place should I have to bolt. Just as I am running out of cover, I hear a very distinct bird-cry. Since I'm enjoying ninja-mode, I entertain the possibility that this is some very clever alarm system. Sure, it sounds just like a bird! But still, no one is coming, and I start to shed the lost hiker posturing.
I am coming upon the southeast corner of the lot. There is no way around it, now. I have run out of cover, and the ground is all dug away here. I cooly step from my cover and, in true Jackrabbit* fashion, I duck low and run out towards one of the larger rubble piles. Idiot. If anyone is looking for me, they have just seen me. If I was playing an FPS, I would consider myself dead. I think all the Farcry I have been playing has gotten to me. If my building was a fort or installation, their snipers would have just painted me. Shimatta bakame. It is not too late to abort, tactically speaking. I know, however, that I did not come out here to abort.
I am now on the east side of the lot. It is the side farthest from my building. It is also the side facing the New Jersey Turnpike. And I want everyone passing by on the Turnpike to see my fireworks and wonder what the special occasion is. That is why I am here. But first, I must find my launching point. There is one giant pile of rubble, curved into an S-shape, and next to it another pile of rubble just as high, but not as long. Behind them both, there is a pile of rubble up close to the eastern fence. It is in a great position for a speedy escape, or if I need to dump my bag for pickup later. But it is too low, and it is too close to the greenery. I am trying to show how harmless fireworks really are, not how to start a fire. I spot all my major lines of egress, and also major lines of sight from where I can be IDed. I hunker (what a great word!) against this giant pile of rubble, and start digging right at the outward bend of the S. I create a hollow up against a piece of stone where I place all six bottles next to each other after wiping the prints off of them. Then I bury them up to the necks in loose rubble. Phase II is complete.
I first remove the earplugs from their case and nestle them snugly in my ears. I have no idea how loud these things are, and I am going to be at the epicenter of their explosion. Then I remove one pack of rockets. There are six of them, and six bottles. And I am 24. Will I have time to fire four salvos? I don't know. I take the matches out and strike the first one. As the rocket lights I lay on my back around the corner from it and watch it scream skyward. I am now a criminal, if I wasn't before. And there are five more rockets to light. Some time during all this, I realize the match in my hand is still lit. Duh. I drop it and it goes out and I ready the next match. Perhaps I should light these things with the hand I don't use to write. The next match goes out as the rocket lights. It burns for what seems an impossible time and just as I mouth the word "dud" it takes off heavenward, spiralling sickeningly. I watch it pop and it pops green. It's probably not high enough to be seen from the highway, but who knows? I manage to light two the next time and two the next. Whee! I love this even more than I love tresspassing, and I loves me some tresspassing. I have loved tresspassing since I first heard Tesla's "Signs". The Seminole in me agrees. No one owns the land, jerkwads. You can't own it any more than you can own air or electromagnetic waves. I light six more: one then three then two. This pack was screamers. Whistle, pop. Surely someone must be coming.
I retreat to the lump of ground closest to the fence. I am ridiculously exposed, but I can see the entrance and not a creature is stirring. I think about quitting, but I can't now. But I sense that my time is short, so I start prepping my next bunch. I grab the last set of rockets I haven't tried and take twelve of them. I rush back to my launching pad, backpack in one hand and fistful of rockets in the other. I drop two rockets in each bottle and twist the fuses together. I get at most four in the air at the same time. And these are loud. Loud going up with a triple pop at the top. I have one left to launch and I break the match striking it. Christ, I am shaking all over. I have been for the last fifteen minutes. I get the last one up in the air and savor it. Yes, I looked stupid sneaking around an empty construction lot. Yes, I should have left my blue denim shirt, which looks sickeningly bright in this light, back in my room. And no, I probably shouldn't have worn my only-of-its-kind hat. But I have just let off a salvo of twentifour fireworks for my birthday of the same number and then all I can think about is too bad I didn't bring two packs of firecrackers: one for good luck and one for good measure. But it is time to go if ever there was a time.
I thought when I left I would just mosey off the lot but I decide for some reason to continue following the perimeter fence to the north side. Right now, I am feeling great. Phase III complete, mission complete. It's time to go home. I am looking up at the big earthmover and wondering at what a great hiding place the bucket in the back would be when I see lights. Probably just someone pulling into my parking lot, but I decide to stay hidden at the far end of the trailer from the parking lot. I had almost stepped out into the open, though, and this is when it was good I didn't. The lights keep coming; this is Phase IV.
If they are in a car, I can probably bet they can't hear footsteps, so I run from my spot at one end of the trailer to behind the long side of the trailer and squat. I can just see part of the word "Police" and I freeze. Then, of course, some jerk comes home to my building and his headlights are all over me. The cop car is already far enough around that they can't see me, but I am basically exposed. If this guy decides to narc me out, I am hosed. If this is another cop car, I am screwed. I haven't heard the cops get out of the car yet, so I carefully drop from my squatting position to lie flat on my stomach. I can't sidle under the trailer because there is tons of crap there. But this is a good thing, because that crap is also preventing the cops from seeing me. It looks like they are just responding to someone's call, because they don't get out of their car and they don't go further into the lot. But I am paralyzed thinking they have heard me or someone pointed me out and they will be walking around the trailer with flashlights out any minute now.
Should I bother ditching my bag? If they find me, they will likely search for it, too. And the noise might give me away. And it was stupid to wear what I did, so I take off my denim shirt and stash it and the hat in my bag. The cops pull out, but it was a psych that I didn't fall for because they swung around again and I was still planted to the ground, now in dark green shirt and black jeans. Total camo. I keep wondering if playing Farcry all last week didn't save me in part because I would have otherwise done some stupid running away thing that would have got my fat ass caught, or some stupid bluff that would have gotten my ass jailed. "Just a hiker" would work for John Q. Public, but not for Johnny Law. Finally, the cops pulled out onto the street. They had gone. Or had they? I usually consider my paranoia pretty healthy; a more trusting person would probably be caught now. I entertain the possibility that maybe they are just around the corner, waiting for me to pop out. Or that one officer "left" in the car and another is waiting for me to step out into the ample lighting again. Or, more realistically, whatever killjoy phoned in the squeal** was waiting for me to come out so they could ID me and live out their twisted vigilante fantasy. So I squeeze along the fence and luckily there is a thick enough layer of vegetation (just barely, believe me) to hide me from open view. I'm also carrying my backpack now by the strap at the top. Stupid reflective strip. I keep it as low as possbile.
There is not really any place for me to circle around and enter my building for the front, so I just suck it up and make my best attempt to look attentive to my own business. I have another ohshit moment as another car pulls into my lot right before I emerge from the grasses, but it passes and is not a cop so I am free. I am in the lot of the auto repair shop next door so I circle the lot for a second and compose myself. I hoist my backpack over one shoulder (I had it over two before) and start walking toward my building. They can't harass every young black male with a backpack who happens to be out at night and besides where is the shirt and hat of the suspect? I don't leave them time for questions but I don't hurry and no one seems to be around as I unlock the side door to my building and take the stairs two at a time to my apartment. I have a panic moment as it sounds like someone is coming up another stairwell, but I get my door unlocked and am inside. I look at my boots and wonder they don't track me to my apartment just by the mud. I move the fireworks to a better hiding location, in case. I start up my computer and hit the web, looking for the penalties for fireworks use in the state of New Jersey. Consensus varies from $500 to $5,000. Sparklers are illegal in New Jersey. SPARKLERS! All the stuff I see that is anti-firework is based around kids blowing themselves up. Nothing is said of the parents. If they don't educate their kids, how do they expect them to not blow themselves up like idiots? Then again, some people are just idiots. If they blow themselves up, what has the world lost? Another idiot. Suddenly, the debate is very like the debate over guns. Do you expose your kids to them at a young age and teach them seriously how and how not to use them? Or do you hide them and forbid them to make kids curious but clueless about their safe operation?
Don't think too hard. Wouldn't want to lose another idiot.
