The Black Hawk War, 1832. Detail of "Battle of Bad Axe," engraved by Ernest Heinemann (1848-1912), from original by William de la Montagne Cary (1840-1922)

I pigged out on ribs and pulled pork and mac & cheese garnished with slices of hot link, in a place with five different BBQ sauces on each table. Drafts were three dollars. I drank a mason jar filled with fruit and “authentic Tennessee white lightning”; it tasted like antifreeze and looked like it would tint my skin blue. I had worn my nice, new, ice cream-colored button-up shirt, the buttons now straining against my distended gut.

My once-fresh short-sleeves were drenched in a vile nacre of deodorant and sweat. A tarp hanging over the bar congratulated the Blackhawks on their victory, and also wished me a happy Independence Day.

The Fourth is not much of a time for reflection in America, which, I think, must be a biological function – the same way sharks must keep swimming or die. It was funny, seeing that Blackhawk head in profile – it looked like he was spitting out “HAPPY FOURTH” as if in a speech bubble. I’ve never met a real Blackhawk Indian. I do not know if when I did he’d be excited for Independence Day.

Amid the stench of burnt charcoal, my ride home was one prolonged, persuasive argument against American independence. People sweating, the floor sticky with beer. No one moved for the lady in the wheelchair coming in, even as the elevator slowly lifted her into the cabin. I leafed through a newspaper, and realized I had read the same sentence twice. I guess it’s bad when one doesn’t even have the energy anymore to find out what new depravity the NSA has been caught at.

Is this really it? It’s not that you or I lose so often that’s galling – it’s that the winners are so demented and dumb. And the Fourth is the holiday for demented and dumb. It’s where every political hack whose coarse racketeering has cost thousands of American soldiers their lives gets to wrap themselves in the flag. It’s the day every crass bigot and rotgut-swilling imbecile gets to don an American flag shirt “ironically” and feel like an aristocrat. It’s when this spiraling lie gets spun a little longer, even as the thread frays.  

As I laid in bed that night, a stranger very near by detonated bottle rocket after bottle rocket, the blast echoing through the alleyway like it was a firing range. These weren't meant to throw off any sparks or light up the night. Or make any little kids “ooh” and “ahh.” Just a coarse syncopation I couldn’t throw off. Just deafening explosions once a minute, fireworks by some dullard with a pit bull.

It was the most American I'd felt all day, falling asleep to that asshole exploding his rote, whistle-stop firecrackers.

General Gandhi

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