Horrible Hank and the fireworks that played Italian love songs
Dad lit the huge fireworks display sitting on our driveway. The fuse fizzled and nothing happened at first. After a few seconds, it sent a half-hearted array of lame rockets into the night sky.
Then a lyrical love song performed by a deep Italian baritone filled the air. The musicianship was top notch — lush orchestral strings wafted over our yard into the surrounding neighborhood.
Underneath the moonlit sky,
I caught a glimpse of your sparkling eyes,
In that moment, my heart took flight,
A feeling I cannot deny.
My dad had always been cheap by nature. He was the kind of man who’d scour the Sunday paper for coupons, and then spend hours trying to figure out the best way to maximize his savings. So when he pulled up in our driveway that July 4th evening, a look of pure pride on his face, a box of discount fireworks in the trunk of his car, I should have known something wacky was about to happen.
But, of course, I had no idea.
As my dad unloaded the box from his car, he had a wide grin on his face. Instead of the usual booming sounds of fireworks, these fakes were accompanied by the sounds of passionate Italian love songs.
Oh, amore mio, you stole my soul,
With every breath, you make me whole,
In your arms, I found my home,
This love we share, forever known.
My dad turned to me with a beaming smile and said, “These are made in Italy, and I got a really good deal on them.”
Yeah, no no kidding, I thought. Just like you got a deal on that Volkswagen car we had to jump start every time and our first microwave that sent out sparks into the kitchen. Or my first pair of hockey skates that were made in Nigeria. Or my brother’s first pair of skis that dad made himself out of barrel staves.
We spent the next hour or so setting off the fireworks, watching as each one lit up the sky with its own uniquely horrible display of colors and effects. Each time one went off, Italian love songs would fill the night with their romantic melodies.
Through the winding streets of Rome,
Hand in hand, we’ll never be alone,
Whispering sweet words in the air,
Our love, a melody beyond compare.
“Hey, shut that junk off!” yelled Hank from next door. “I don’t want to hear no stinking Eye-talian music!”
“What? Sorry! I can’t hear you, Hank!” my dad said loudly, winking at me.
Hank continued to shake his fist from his porch as Dad lit firework after firework.
But just as my dad was about to light the last firework, a sudden gust of wind picked up and knocked the firework over, causing it to rocket towards Hank’s porch.
“Watch out, Hank!” I shouted, but it was too late. The firework crashed into Hank’s porch and set off a chain reaction of explosions.
Hank’s porch was engulfed in flames, and the Italian love song was drowned out by the sound of sirens as the fire department rushed to the scene.
A huge firetruck screeched to a stop in front of Hank’s house. A paramedic van followed closely, and two men with first aid kits jumped out. They put Hank on a stretcher, slid him in the back and sped away.
My dad looked at me with a guilty expression. “I guess I shouldn’t have gone for the cheap fireworks, huh?”
I shook my head, laughing. “What are you kidding? That was great. Hank’s britches caught on fire and he was dancing like he was going for first place at the State Fair square dance competition!”
My dad and mom started square dancing in the driveway. “Swing your partner round and round, even if your lost, with the Lord you’re found!” I called out as they linked arms and spun in a circle. They fell down in the grass laughing.
As we watched the firefighters put out the flames, my dad suddenly pulled out a bottle of cheap red wine he had stashed in his jacket pocket.
“Hey, let me make a toast to Hank’s new porch that should be installed by the end of the year!” Dad said as my parents raised glasses of wine and the kids held our Cokes aloft.
“To Hank!” we cried, “The most miserable neighbor anyone could have!
It was a magical evening. As the night grew darker, I lay in the grass and stared up at the stars. The fireworks were lousy, but somehow my dad made it a better experience that I knew we would talk about for years to come.
