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Cretin
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They Buried The Lunchbox
It was summer. The city cooked without breeze. My neighborhood had finally had enough and went out
looking for the fiend who'd been lighting fireworks all throughout the nights.
At first it was fun. We met neighbors, toted beer. Kids brought squirt guns and flashlights. My boyfriend
held my hand as we ran alleys, through the park, following the pops. But the men were serious.
When they cornered him, the bomber tossed firecrackers into the air, like confetti at a party. We
blamed it on the heat, the men going sour like that. And we were tired, so tired. He was different, you
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could tell by his face. He had a lunchbox full of M80s and sticks, popsicle sticks, and some sad letters and
photos. They started push- ing because it was so hot. He moaned. Or giggled. I ran when I saw someone
lift the brick.
No one talks about it now. Still, after a while, on that night, the neighborhood got to lighting fireworks.
But only on that night.
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