Gene sits on top of the pickup roof, legs crossed, eating popcorn out of a brown paper grocery bag wrinkled and now stained with butter. His friend sits next to him, and they look toward the old fairgrounds, the grain elevators rising behind the bleachers - waiting, talking, joking like 10 year old boys.
In front of the truck: Paul. He doesn’t know what’s coming. He’s potty training and squirming in his mother’s arms, trying to get away from her and her lawn chair and back to (or on) the truck with the big boys.
- Paul, stop.
- No no no, I wanna go.
A tester - the white circle boom, a visual representation of pure sound. Paul quiets himself, crawls back into her lap.
- Soon, mama?
- Soon, baby.
Night has fallen, it’s cool. Paul looks past his mother’s face, over her shoulder. To the truck, to Gene, who smiles and waves: not teasing, not not teasing, saying in a gesture, "I’m where I should be, and so are you."
Paul waves and smiles back. He turns around as the fireworks start, and his eyes widen with the first flash.
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