Andrew Rogers heard there was a crowd when Jamie broke her arm. But he didn’t hear the crack, the gasps, or the tangible scramble of human noise. Later at recess he got to sign the cast, his name a scribble on the blue plastic shell. Jamie had half smiled when Andrew stepped back, the pen still open and its permanence fuming. Then Jimmy, one of the dozen bystanders of the accident, approached and both corners of Jamie’s mouth rotated upward, springing with enthusiasm. And that was when Andrew knew what she was after, what everyone was after, a witness signature.
Andrew heard Marvin’s clinically crazy brother had hearts on his underwear when he stripped down and ran through Main Street. The runner didn’t make it to the bridge, his father cornering him by the library. Some say Mr. Davidson tackled his son to the ground, but Andrew had met the man and by the straightness of his ties Andrew had a hard time imagining him tackling anyone, even Marvin’s crazy brother. This detail, the tackling or not tackling, that’s the proof you were really there, on Main Street, staring at hearts streaming past you and not the speckled stars blushing in a heated glaze.
Andrew had never actually seen a bone splinter or a father who wore ties tackling a son who wore hearted underwear. But Andrew had spent the last ten years of life listening. His own mother thought of her son as a shadow. He knew this of course and thought she was only half right. Shadows are the silent rarely noticed type, but also constant spectators (they may not have the best seats in town, but looking up and at an angle is a whole lot better than where Andrew normally stood). Put frankly, Andrew had never been a witness to anything worth telling about. That is until April 14th at around 4:30 p.m.
At around 3:03 p.m. on Friday April 14th a girl by the name of Katie had decided she wanted something to happen. As one Andrew Rogers might put it, she wanted a witness signature to something spectacular.
This spectacular something came in the form of a bridge, the art of stealing and a whole lot of explosive material.
Andrew Rogers had never met or seen the girl by the name of Katie. For a small town of 1,563 this was both a sad and masterful feat. Their first encounter unravels as such: The time – 3:23 p.m. The place: Edward’s Hardware store. Our hero: riding a blue bicycle with unwavering fortitude. Our heroine: as equally focused, but with a much darker objective then desiring the wind to blow ever faster. She was in fact stealing from Edward’s Hardware store. If it makes one feel better the said Edward and presumable owner was her uncle and had on another occasion allowed such an act. However, said Edward would never have condoned his niece taking what was now in her possession. She ran out the back door so fast some of the peeling paint followed her, the white flecks and flakes floating in the air as if hands stretching out to grab her.
It was at this moment, 3:24 p.m. to give an estimate, that Andrew and the blue bicycle came barreling toward her person and newly acquired possession. As one might imagine there was rubber screeching, a small intake of breath and the overall paradox of time flashing, slowing and waiting in anticipation. Then together the two inhaled, realizing the three inch gap between bicycle and girl something to marvel at in silence. Andrew was speechless, but this was nothing new.
Katie’s chin that had tucked itself between collarbones jetted back out to its natural place. Andrew would later come to realize that its natural place stood out a defining inch further than anybody else. “Well?”
Andrew was still breathing too heavily to fully understand this one worded question. “Well what?”
Two green orb like eyes, if possible, grew wider. “Aren’t you going to apologize for nearly killing me, kid?”
Andrew was trying to find the right words to explain how she had appeared like a ghost but now, standing before him, had become the most solid object in proximity. “I’m sorry, you just…you just…came out and…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re forgiven kid. See ya,” As she was blowing him off, she repositioned the box that had begun to draw red lines into her forearms. As with anyone this movement captured attention and curiosity.
“What’s in the box?”
She stilled and the two green eyes squinted. “Nothing”
“That always means something,”
“Well aren’t you brilliant.”
Andrew clearly didn’t know how to counter and his awkwardness was mistaken as defiance.
“What’s your name kid?”
“Andrew.”
“Well I’m Katie. How old are ya?” she questioned.
“Ten… and a half,”
“Well I am eleven.” This clearly proved lordship.
“Well, I am trying to get somewhere and this box is heavier than I expected. So I guess you can help me.” She placed the box into his blue bicycle’s basket. Any living creature would have groaned under the weight, but luckily the rusted metal of Andrew’s bicycle only creaked.
Andrew was speechless, but this was nothing new. However, he did have a new found sense of what his father had meant when he had pulled him close and told him “women are puzzling creatures.” If this was true and it surely was, then Andrew saw Katie as a million piece jig saw.
“Let’s go.” And Katie jested forth. Jolted a bit, Andrew quickly felt the need to follow suit so he stumbled off the bike and toted it along after her. Surprising, Katie walked with a calmness that resembled someone who had received a college degree in patience and not of someone who had been in the need of a getaway vehicle.
They turned down Elmwood Circle which was as straight as any road. If you are imagining one of those beautiful neighborhoods with thick trees that create a tunnel of foliage, forget all that. The street was dense concrete leading up to bricks and mortar. And yes there were trees, the one or two fledglings, whipped and tame and now wimpy looking. Andrew glanced to the box and she caught him. So he looked to the houses, but nothing at that moment could be more mysterious than the cardboard flaps of that rectangle package or the fair skinned girl who owned it.
“Where are we going?”
“To the bridge.”
“Ah, the bridge.” Andrew tried to act all-knowing, then failed. “We should probably cut through here then.”
She seemed confused and Andrew began to doubt everything. “You know… to get to Main Street?”
“Ah yes, of course, a shortcut. Good idea.”
Andrew could tell Katie didn’t like this following the boy that had almost run her over business. So as soon as they arrived upon Main Street and the bridge was in view he fell back into subservient place (he was after all a whole year younger). As they passed the library Andrew couldn’t help himself. “This is where Mr. Davidson tackled his son, you know.”
“Why would he do something like that?”
Andrew’s jaw dropped. Why? Would it be rude to say because the boy was crazy? Because he was wearing only underwear with hearts on them? Because he was on Main Street for all the world to see, for even the stars to blush? So thrown by her question Andrew just shrugged. “I guess I don’t really know.”
“Well that is silly. You can’t just tell me something like that without giving proper explanations. Who taught you how to tell a story, huh?”
“I guess I don’t have many stories to tell.”
Now Katie looked really puzzled. “That’s nonsense. Everything can be a story and if not you just make it up.”
Andrew resorted back to silence. His topic of conversation had not gone as expected. He really was bad at this whole talking endeavor.
“Oh you are one of those hopeless ones, huh? Well in about ten minutes you will have a story to tell.” Katie ran forward to the bridge, which in all regard was nothing more than a slab of arched concrete. While once a portal for cars, another street provided a direct link to the highway. Now the bridge was just a grand silent thing, but its small cracks were smiles holding in secrets.
The time was 3:56 p.m. when Katie threw open the flap and Andrew’s mystery was solved.
“Is that a bomb?”
“No.” She frowned at him. “Who do you think I am? These here are fireworks.”
“It’s 4:00 o’clock in the afternoon!” (Really 3:57, but who’s keeping track?)
“So?” Her logic was beyond him. She began to place boxes and cylinders and other weird formed volatile material upon the cobblestoned surface. Then a match was ignited. “After I light them, we run that way. Got it?”
A thick gooey uneasiness settled over Andrew; it mainly developed in his hands as they flinched slowly forward then back, deciding upon intervention. It felt so wrong to let such fair skin hold fire and bring it to a wick of boxed danger.
“Here, let me do that,” he finally spilled out in a rush.
The look Katie gave Andrew at that moment was one of pure bewilderment. She blew out the match forcefully. Andrew saw her chin raise an inch and he gulped knowing that inch meant trouble. “Don’t be a sexism pig.”
Andrew frowned.
“And don’t give me that look. My sister says something like that when she wants to assert her independence. She’s seventeen, buddy and has a boyfriend. She knows what she is talking about. So don’t talk about taking over all my grand plans here,” then she got bashful and fidgeted with the fireworks “And besides I know the pig part is right, ready?”
Stunned at her outburst, Andrew just nodded. The wick was set and they bolted down the bridge and far into the arms of the lonely road. A sound like a gunshot pierced the air and both kids whipped around.
Then “Bang! Bang! Bang!” in succession. At that moment, 4:12 to give an estimate, Mr. Walker the barber almost took the ear off his client. Mrs. Georgia dropped her groceries and a pickle jar shattered and liquid pooled into yellowy puddles on the sidewalk. A police officer writing a traffic ticket jumped and the pen scrawled upward. The red corvette owner would never know he was saved a hundred dollar fine by a ten year old.
Up in the sky a slight circular pattern of sparkles could barely be made out. Mostly Andrew watched white puffs of smoke try to look like clouds, but the wind quickly noticed the violators and was blowing it away. Andrew glanced over at Katie expecting that puzzling and suspicious frown of hers. He wasn’t expecting the tears. He suddenly had the urge to hold her hand. But what a preposterous thing for a ten year old boy to think and he swiftly snuffed it out lickity split.
“I tried to tell you. Fireworks are not any good in the middle of the day.”
“It’s perfect,” she whispered.
“Then why are you crying?”
She wiped away the wetness with her sleeve. “Come on, the next round won’t set itself off.”
By the 4:20 p.m. Andrew and Katie had set off five sets of fireworks, each whizzing or banging in loud gasps. Over and over again Andrew watched the sparkles, some more vibrant than others. It was weird and yet he felt as he was a witness to something spectacular. But as each set went off in loud crackling desperation he realized being a witness was not enough. Not enough at all.
BANG! No one just wants a witness signature; they want to tell the story, their own story with exaggerated details and outrageousness. They want to stay connected and light up the sky in a glorious blaze of color.
BANG! They didn’t want to see the fireworks; they wanted to be the fireworks. To be present for that moment, make an earsplitting noise and shine before the wind blows away their residue.
It was 4:32 p.m. when enough people in their surprise had begun to trace the loud noises to the bridge. Surprising it was not the officer who first discovered our hero and heroine (if interested, he had abandoned the red corvette and begun to comfort a Mrs. Wilder who had started to hyperventilate). No, a man of age 38 had arrived in confusion and worry. He dropped to a knee, picked up a used firework container then as if knowing the entire plot turned right in the direction of Katie.
“Katie!”
Katie froze and Andrew in bewilderment scanned between stranger and girl. “Katie, what do you think you are doing?”
Her chin stuck out that defining inch, but don’t imagine smugness, imagine a small girl clinging and desperately trying not to break.
The man again kneeled. “We just moved here Katie, trying to start something new. Uncle Edward has been so kind and you steal from him? And all for fireworks? You know…you know that was wrong!”
“It was for her.”
Bang, a realization hit this man square in the face and he looked back at the mess the two children had made. “Fireworks, a bridge, April 14th… you are recreating her stories? Her wild crazy half untrue tales of when she was a teenager?”
“They are true. I am making them true.”
Katie’s father sighed and the area around his mouth and eyes cringed into the expression of pain, “Katie you can’t just recreate her stories. Your mother…” Those words were hard, thick like glue and then the man reconstructed himself. “Your mother would want you to create your own stories, but not like this. Not by stealing, and scaring half the town to death.”
Katie started to cry again and she fell or as Andrew visualized, melted into his arms. “Dad…I …want…her…back…” A sob more powerful than any firework echoed into the air.
During this Andrew had stepped back a few paces. He never felt more like a shadow than at that moment (4:35 p.m. to give an estimate). But somehow in that same instant he felt alive, not just a witness, but a piece of life itself, feeding off Katie’s emotions. All at the same time he seemed to understand and not understand something of deep importance.
Katie’s father finally took into account Andrew’s presence. “You should probably get out of here. Your parents must be worried.”
Andrew hesitated, waiting for something, maybe a signature of some sort to prove the validity of the moment. Then he scurried to his blue bicycle and hopped on.
Andrew rode, rode faster than he had ever in his ten years of life. He rode and he felt alive. His shadow, the bike’s shadow, the whole world’s shadows trailed behind him, looking up and at an angle.
We were perfect witnesses.
THE END