In God we trust_ all others pay cash - Jean Shepherd [57]
On the far horizon the steel mills caught the reflected light of the flickering lightning of a gathering summer storm, PLOCK—my father sent another ball blazing white into the northern skies, PLOCK—a blue one, this time toward the Big Dipper. PLOCK—a green arrow darted toward the moon. The audience swayed in unison as my father, both arms weaving magically, the beat and the pulse of his synchronized Roman Candles paid homage to General Washington and the Continental Congress; the Boston Tea Party and the Minutemen. It was almost midnight now and my father, instinctively showing the great finesse and technique of a born Roman Candle Beethoven, knew that he was down to the last two balls.
PLOCK—the right hand sent a yellow star into the firmament. PLOCK—the left. And then something was wrong. The left-hand Roman Candle faltered. A few tiny sparks sizzled briefly. He spun the tube out and upward again; down, out and upward, meanwhile the right-hand weapon—PLOCK—sent its pellet upward. Suddenly, without warning an alien sound:
K-tunk!
And from the south end of the left-hand Roman Candle a large red ball emerged. From the wrong end! He leaped high, but it was too late. The ball skittered along his forearm, striking his elbow sharply, and disappeared into the short sleeve of his Pongee sport shirt!
The crowd gasped. A few women screamed. Children suddenly cried aloud as my father, showing the presence of mind of a great actor in the midst of catastrophe, shot his final ball from his right hand toward the North Star, as simultaneously the red ball reappeared from between his shoulder blades, his Pongee shirt bursting into spectacular flames. With a bellow he raced up the sidewalk, over the lawn, and trailing smoke and flames he disappeared into the house. A brief second of silence, and the sound of the shower could be heard roaring full blast from the darkened home.
Stunned for an instant the crowd remained silent, but then loosed a great roar of applause. They knew they had witnessed the finest performance of a great artist. Midnight tolled, and the Fourth was over.
“Would you care to order, sir?”
I was jerked back into the present by the waiter, who had shoved a huge menu in front of me.
“I guess so,” I answered, “it looks like my date is not going to show.”
It was just as well. Outside in the clanging street the blasting continued, and here in Les Misérables des Frites the bottles rattled. I sat quietly for a moment and watched the heat shimmer on the taxicabs outside, and then, raising what remained of my Charlie, I said to myself:
“Well, here’s to the Fourth,” and began to read the menu. It was time to eat.
XVII I SHOW OFF
Flick looked puzzled.
“A Bloody Charlie? How the hell do you make a Bloody Charlie?”
“You mean you don’t serve Bloody Charlies here?”
Flick rummaged under the bar and finally found his Bartender’s Guide.
“Forget it. You will not find it listed in that rag.”
I could see that Flick’s professional curiosity was piqued.
“Do you mean a Bloody Mary?”
“No, I said a Bloody Charlie. Charlie, as in Charlie Company. If I recall rightly, Flick, you were in the Artillery. ‘C’ for Charlie.”
“Well, all right, how do you make a Bloody Charlie?” He sounded skeptical.
“Okay. If you have the makings, I’ll be glad to whip us up a couple.”
“This I have to see.”
“Okay. I will need vodka, which I see you have, tomato juice, Worcestershire sauce, and perhaps a bit of salt. And one other special ingredient.”
Flick set the tomato juice, the vodka, the Worcestershire, and a salt shaker on the bar next to two tall glasses. I waited for him to bite.
“Now I suppose you’re gonna tell me I need one a them fancy French liqueurs, or something.