December 11, 2001

 mfinley.com   
"True Story"

by Michael Finley
(c) 2001 by Michael Finley

With the sound of distant explosions in the air, I jumped in the car and peeled away from the curb.

I knew it was wrong, but I was leaving my family behind me. I asked them to come, not once but several times. "Please,' I said to them. "I don't want to do this alone."

No takers -- they stared like there was something wrong with me. In truth, I no longer cared, I wanted out so bad, I was willing to abandon my own flesh and blood.

Traffic was a nightmare. Cars crowded the freeway ramp, their red rear lights blinking in the dusk. Horns sounded from every direction. But there was no give, as the freeway itself was locked solid with cars, as thousands of motorists pressed to advance. Bypassing the freeway, I kept to the frontage roads and drove east.

All around me I could hear pops of gunpowder deeper in the neighborhood. The explosions peppered the evening air. I could picture the faces of the people at ground zero, where the explosions originated. For them it was fun, a game. All I wanted to do was to escape them.

As I accelerated from stop sign to stop sign, I reflected on what had brought us to this state of affairs. I blamed stupidity, and patriotism, and the glee people experience in the act of lighting a match.

I thought about the history of our nation, and the values we were founded on, and the thoughtfulness of the people who conceived of us, and what they must think of us now, in our hour of discharge, red flares lining the road past the capitol, where a crush of people were advancing on foot.

Policemen were trying to guide traffic, but in their haste cars were cutting across boulevards and lawns. God help us, I thought.

I sped past these crowds, ignoring the hooligans thumping on my fender and windshield. Some were laughing. Some seemed drunk. All seemed to be leering in the flashing light from the bombs, like it was Mardi Gras or Halloween, a last crazy chance to celebrate the beast within.

I took a dark road that led down into the industrial valley along the river, then up again along a ridge. From my rear view mirror I could see already the bombardment beginning at the capitol. Brightness momentarily lit the dome, and a mighty boom rolled across the city.

I had gotten away. But I had lost faith in everyone.

I parked my car by a wooded area opposite the river. Walking in measured steps, I entered the woods and tried to think my thoughts. This moment of madness would pass, I told myself. People's passions would subside and the noise would die down.

As I reassured myself, I felt my breathing slow down, and the tension in my chest and shoulders relax. High in a fir tree an owl called out. I quickened my pace and climbed a last hill to the river overlook.

When I emerged from the thicket, I was able to see ten or twelve miles downriver and another three or four miles to the north.

High over the treetops, up and down the river, spaced every few miles, tracers and flares ignited, sending electric sprays of red and green and blue lashing into the darkness.

In Hastings, and Prescott, and Cottage Grove. In Eagan, and South Saint Paul, and Mendota Heights. I even saw explosions in Inver Grove, and way far to the south, Farmington.

The explosions were dotting the map, all over the country. Not a single town was spared. I sat in the dirt on the ridgetop and stared.

It was the fourth of July, 2001, and a garden of fire was blossoming in America.

mfinley.com 
_{COPYRIGHT (c) 2001
by MICHAEL FINLEY}

Mike is available to write for your publication or organization right now. Call him at 651-644-4540. Or e-mail him.

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