A Walking Fog

At 8:22 the sign read 83 degrees in numbers 12 inches high. Damn. Oregon is usually not this warm in the morning. Thank god.
Maybe it was wrong sitting in the sun as the display was. Of course I didn't know where the sensor was, so it didn't really matter. I looked down to check my shirt and saw two spots of sweat soaking through, forming what I knew would be the eyes of the sweat face that would form by the time I reached home.
My thoughts flittered back to previous hot July days. Some of them were pretty damned good memories, and some had soured with age. But, today being Independence Day, my mind distlled the images down to those of previous July Fourths.
I recalled loving fireworks displays as a child. I loved the visual spectable, I loved the thunderous sounds, I loved the smell of spent rockets. I loved watching the people. I loved the guessing of when the show was going to start.
It gets too hot walking in the sun, so I cross to the other side of the street, knowing that a couple more blocks of sun will give way to the shade of large friendly trees.
In my mid-teens I had lost interest in the fireworks, but I still liked going to the displays to people watch. I reach back through the fog of time and pluck a memory from 1988. I was old enough to wander around on my own, and embarassed enough of my family to want to do so. I spent a hot afternoon wandering through tight crowds of people all walking to and from the waterfront park in aptly named Independence, Oregon. The landscape was a sea of brown and pink faces and the tops of heads. I remember meeting a girl, but I don't remember her name. I just remember that she was walking a large black dog. We talked about a book I was carrying around, bought earlier in the day at a sale to support a local church. I don't remember the title of the book anymore. I can make some guesses and realize my tastes haven't changed much in the last 20 years.
I come to the end of the stretch along the main street and turn down a tree-lined lane. It seems ironic that the houses are all so nice, with crisply manicured lawns, yet the sidewalks are in such disrepair or non-existant.
The song changes and Soul Coughing comes on and my thoughts turn to the lyrics...something about us all being alone; and I instantly recall an episode of Magnum P.I. that takes place on the 4th of July. The main character spends every 4th alone for personal reasons. This year he gets into trouble while kayaking in the ocean, but noone thinks anything of his absence, as they all know his custom. The second part is lost on me though. All I take away from the show is that it would be great to be able to take a day off from everyone.
The almost sultry vocals of Andrew Bird replace the raspy tones of Mike Doughty, but the song stays the same as he sings about a man who always feels alone even in a crowd.
I think of the last big party I went to on the 4th, when my dear friend Beth set me on fire twice. I have to chuckle to myself. With the amount of alcohol we all were consuming it's a wonder we didn't burn down somebody's house or send someone to the hospital. I guess liquor and illegal fireworks don't mix. That was a great day, with good friends and good food. But, a frown replaces my smile as I recall how the evening ends as I staggered home at 3 in the morning. For hours a young woman, who's name I choose not to share, had been hitting on me. This is pretty rare, or was pretty rare, as it doesn't happen at all now. I just kept thinking to myself, one more drink and maybe I won't hate myself now for how I'm going to feel in the morning. But no matter how much I drank, I couldn't forget how I felt about her sober. I recall that the air at 3 in the morning wasn't terribly cool, but it was refreshing, after having been in a stuffy smoke-filled basement all night.
Was it the year before or the year after I was in Portland for the 4th? I think it was both, and both times with Aaron-Andre. The first time we left as the fireworks were starting in downtown and managed to catch 3 shows on our drive down I-5. The second time we caravaned home at 3 or 4 in the morning, when we were finally sober enough to drive. Aaron-Andre had a flat tire and so did I, though not completely flat. We pulled into the rest area which we both knew was the one that the Green River Killer had taken a victim in. As we were about to change tires, a truck driver approached us to ask if he could help. I remember thinking that as long he didn't seperate us, nothing should happen. He turned out to be a really nice and helpful guy. When he noticed that both of us had nearly flat right front tires, he suggested that maybe someone had just let the air out of them, and that if we'd hold on just a minute, he would bring over his air compressor and fill them up. It turned out he was right, and I never did have to replace or repair that tire.
I snap out of the fog as a cyclist makes a clicking noise and deftly swerves around me. It's not my fault I'm walking in the street, there aren't any sidewalks.
I turn the final corner to come home and look down to see that I've sweat enough to go passed the shocked face to the smiley face. There's something satisfying about working up a good sweat, even if it's assisted by the heat.