The Fifth of July

The fourth of July, and the bombs were blasting into the night here in Los Angeles. I heard firecrackers going off into morning. Just when I thought everybody was in bed, I’d hear an M-80 go off. It was past two in the morning, and somebody was out there getting their kicks. I admired them for it, they were living, and taking advantage of the once a year opportunity to light fireworks.

            The city sounded like a war zone. I climbed atop Kite Hill and watched from there. The Pasadena area was dead. I could see the fireworks from the Rose Bowl, but beyond that it was dark, and staid.

When I looked toward Los Angeles, the city was positively giddy, alive. The proletariat was going ape.

            Then the Wall Street money came into play. The borrowed money, the leveraged to the point of bankruptcy money, the Dodger stadium money. Their fireworks were sophisticated, organized, polished. The show came to an end, some twenty or thirty minutes later. The working man was still going at it. He hasn't stopped yet, and it's now the fifth of July.