Every New Years Eve

When mom called us in after five o’clock to take a bath and have supper, we were not allowed to go outside again. Once we’d eaten, the dark world was closed to us while we we stayed indoors and read or listened to the radio.  The eve of the Chinese New Year was the exception as an auspicious future was secured by a blazing fireworks display.  

 

Popping fire crackers were the one danger our mom taught us to face fearlessly. Yelping at cockroaches, troubled every time we sneezed, nervous about the next war or famine, she fretted over each lurking peril, but stood unruffled amidst the smoke and explosions. For these terrible sounds blocked all hovering evil spirits allowing good luck to circulate freely.  The sound of fire crackers was no more frightening to us than hearing corn pop.

Around 11:00 pm my brother Terry and I sorted packages of fire crackers and gathered our punks, long smoldering sticks that do not require a visible flame. In the front and back yard Daddy was setting up great ladders from which  strings of ten thousand firecrackers hung like monstrous centipedes ready to be lit exactly at midnight. Everyone else in the neighborhood was poised to do the same thing. 

But one New Year’s Eve, the year when I had turned twelve, I took extra time to change from my jeans and t-shirt into a pair of green slacks and one of my mother's blouses. I took my hair down and tried parting it to the side, but my bangs were too long and so I had to pin everything up again. By the time I went outside, Terry had set up the ramps made of old tin gutters so he could launch the rockets.

"When are you friends coming?" I asked him

"They'll be here."

"What if they aren't?"

"They'll show."

Daddy owned a grocery store and the firecrackers he couldn't sell he'd bring home. We were considered the richest family on the block in terms of fireworks and the kids would come from all over the neighborhood to pop our plentiful stockpile.

 

Boy might come too. His name was really John but he liked Boy better. I always felt funny saying boy to call someone but I hardly ever spoke to him anyway and I don't think I'd ever said his name to his face.

The New Year's signal came on the radio. My mom waved to daddy that it was time to start. He lit the fuse and the string of fire crackers started sharply crackling, climbing up the ladder like an angry dragon. We all raced to the backyard to ignite the second string. The noise was deafening as the whole island joined in this celebration of sound. You didn't hear the sharp, fast popping of a small package going off but one continuous reverberation of thunder. Once this finale subsided, the real fun started as we began to light anything we could get our hands on. After a while we were busy with the ones we liked best. Daddy went for the legally forbidden cherry bombs. Many a hand had been blown off with these lethal mini bombs but Daddy was the expert. He even knew how to hold regular fire crackers in his hand, pinching them tightly, so they could go off without hurting himself. 

Terry loved to experiment with the rockets, seeing how many he could light at one time. Mom would be up on the balcony holding the long roman candles and sparklers, and I loved the novelties best of all---the spinning helicopters, spouting volcanoes, and crazy zigzags. Smoke settled thickly on our front lawn and a caldron of sulfurous fumes filled our senses. Hisses, whirls, and eruptions accompanied the flashing kaleidoscope of colors shooting up in a dazzling array.

"Hey--rugged.!"

 "Mukai!"

"No wait for us, eh blala."

I had a hard time lighting one of my fuses. 

"Jean, go and get the boys some punks," my mom called. I ran into the house and started handing out the brown smoking sticks. I recognized Raymond, Alan, Marcos, Sidney, and Humbert standing around, but most of all I felt the shadowed form of Boy's presence. He was new in the neighborhood and very tall. Terry said he was Hawaiian and part Portuguese. Although he was a little dark, we thought of him as white. His soft hazel eyes would turn brown or green depending on the light of the sun. He was much quieter than the other boys and wasn't always goofing around and breaking into the local pidgin slang that we all spoke. I wondered if he'd grow up looking like Mr. Mathieson, our swimming teacher in school. I wished I could be a boy so I could talk to him like Terry.

I began to feel anxious that the night was going by too quickly. The shadows in the dark seemed to dance with excitement and promise. My body felt clumsy and I was uncertain as to what I should be doing. My helicopters lay unlit as I stood motionless. All the boys were rummaging into the pile of assorted fireworks, selecting their favorites and joining in the fun. Boy picked up a pack and started to light one. 

"Hey Boy," Terry called.

"Yeah."

"Whatcha doing?" 

"What?" 

"Don't light ’em on the ground—hold them in your hand then throw." Terry went over to show him how.

Everyone had grabbed a bunch of cherry bombs now and pretended to throw them at one another. They'd fake and then throw them across the street. But I wasn't paying any attention. Boy was standing apart by himself on the driveway. His never went off. He threw them before they had a chance to light. His long stiff fingers were trembling. I felt a funny pain for him. I wanted to tell him there was nothing to be afraid of and then I got confused. Maybe he wasn't afraid of anything but just wasn't used to firecrackers. He was standing right there, but the distance felt too great for me to say anything to him. I hoped the others boys wouldn't notice. Finally everyone started hovering around Terry and his rockets, and it wasn't long before my mom and dad were telling us it was time to come inside.

It was late at night when I finally got into bed, but I wasn't tired.  I lay awake for a long time hearing the occasional pop of firecrackers continuing through the night while I wondered about Boy and what he was really like.

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