Nurse the Hate: Hate Pensacola

When I lit the firework, I knew I had made a drastic miscalculation in the trajectory of the flight of the explosive.  It arched majestically in the Florida sky before gaining speed on its descent, trailing orange sparks in its path.  It probably bounced into the condo directly facing the one where I had launched it after landing on the concrete porch.  I didn’t seem like a straight shot.  I say this because when I saw the firework detonate, the sharp outline of a man leaping from his bed became visible.  The firework left a flaming skip trail as it bounded into the posh upscale bedroom.  Even from where I stood on the porch, I could smell his fear.  It was a legitimate fear, because his bedroom was literally filled with multi colored flames shooting in every direction like a psychedelic dragon had busted inside.  That’s a tough way to wakeup at 2:47 am. 

Why the greasy man in the “Roll Tide” baseball hat thought it was a good idea to sell giant rockets and monster mortars to a group of men as intoxicated as we were was not clear.  However, I do not believe they hired clerks at “Shaky’s Fireworks Hut” based on their ability to see future calamity, but probably placed more weight on the employees ability to show up to work on time and only partially stoned.  Shaky’s seemed like a classic fireworks hut.  Iffy Chinese fireworks sold to tourists passing through that may or may not blow their fingers off in the coming days.  We were demolished.  We could have cared less about consequence.  We wanted to blow some shit up.   

We had blasted through the case and a half of beer quickly, but the wheels had begun to really come off when we got into the scotch.  Jimmy Jazz had a sister that was staying in a condo of one of her roommates in Pensacola.  We thought we would drive down overnight from Ohio, hop into the ocean, and win the ladies over with our charm for a nice weekend.  The decision to buy the beer and flimsy Styrofoam cooler in West Virginia ended the chance of us charming the ladies.  That is clear to me now.   

We had an odd dynamic, these fellow travelers of mine.  What was once a healthy competitive nature between the three of us and turned downright dangerous to others around us as we all tried to up the ante to see how far we could push the envelope.  Things kept ratcheting up over the weeks.  Jimmy stole a car from a drunken businessman.  I drove a bulldozer around a construction site and into the neighboring community.  We both drove a golf cart into a swimming pool after building a ramp that we somehow thought would launch us over the pool like Evel Fucking Kneivel.  I could go on, but you get the idea.  If you were part of the inner circle, we were a really good time.  If you weren’t, we were a bunch of assholes. 

We had arrived in Pensacola shortly after dawn.  We had to wait for a liquor store to open up to us and a Haitian in rubber sandals and Pac-Man t-shirt to get more beer to make sure and not slump into hangover territory.  Fortified, we showed up at the condo and dove into the ocean.  By the time the girls woke up, we had already killed another twelve and were well established on the beach.  

From the beginning, Jimmy’s sister’s friends identified us as a source of a ruined weekend.  They were hoping for a quiet time for gal pals, and instead got three guys fueled up on mini thins and domestic beer that didn’t give a fuck about anything.  I remember entering that weird head space where you haven’t slept in so long everything is slightly confusing and dreamlike.  The problem was, I would be up for the duration due to the trucker speed.  No matter how much beer you poured on those little white pills, you just kept going.   

As the sun fell on the day, we decided to go shopping to buy food for our hostesses and re-stock our now dwindled supplies.  That was when we saw Shaky’s Fireworks Shack located conveniently by the liquor store.  I know I didn’t buy the scotch, as I’m not into the demonic brown liquors.  I stuck with what I know.  I will admit now to buying enough fireworks to have held off a squad of Waffen SS shock troops for at least a few hours.  I went with my usual game plan.  By as much as you can carry, and stick to the big stuff that will make a real impact.  I like stuff called “Dragon Flower of Power Death” and “US Patriot Shooting Missile Explosion”.  This is the stuff you aren’t sure what it does, and the instructions are limited to “light fuse and get away”.   

I recall with some clarity the scotch being handed to me, and taking a big pull.  It was right afterwards when I thought things had become too mellow that I went with Jimmy to the second story porch of the condo to light off “Atomic Rooster of Dragon” and I saw it whisk into the adjoining building. 

It was a hell of a thing. 

The next morning came early.  The Pensacola Police knew they couldn’t prove anything, but they didn’t really give a shit.  The cop was no nonsense, but calm.  His forearms were the size of my thighs.   “Boys…  You have two choices.  You can either drive yourself out of city limits and never come back, or we will lock you up for the weekend.”  It wasn’t much of a choice, and frankly, it was fair. 

I haven’t been back to Pensacola since.