Yup Yup Yup

By Justin Evans

        The highways in Georgia after 2:00 A.M. are better. The lights cloud in places and shine on others, making bits of day with edges, but most of what you had recognized in the day is gone. There is just black road, black rows of trees against black sky, the shine green and yellows of reflective paint, the smiling faces and wise words of billboards floating, and the light pooling in front of each rare vehicle. You can tell most of the people on this side of the world are asleep because the breeze is cool and your head feels clear. You know it doesn’t matter how far you are going because clocks don’t count by the sun there.
        Me and Jordan are sitting in his basement watching something on the TV. There is no one to call and nothing left to do. He turns to me and says lets get some fireworks.
        I think about it for a few seconds before I realize it’s a great idea. For years fireworks had been illegal in Georgia, same as plenty of other states, ever since king Ass held a m-80 in his hand and tried to swallow a bottle rocket. His mother most likely ignored his obvious inability to rationalize and instead blamed the object, mailing several senators and meeting with groups of middle aged women until a law was made. But Tennessee was only a few hours away, and the truly great sellers of popular recreational pyrotechnics stayed in Tennessee.
        So me and Jordan turned on his Aerostar and took it out the driveway. It was a noble vehicle. Solid as hard plastic and covered in a modest blue sheen which reminded one of far away mountains and moderately deep ocean water. There were no back seats, only a storage area for groceries, furniture, dogs, and bicycles- none of which it ever carried. We passed through the yellow lit neighborhoods on to the largely empty highway.

        There the tar matched the trees. Instead of sitting and pretending to be still while we spun on the earth and spun around the sun and spun around the milky way and floated wherever from there, we were going in one direction and a direction we could trust. Eventually it would mean mortars, black cats, and roman candles, and there was no question and no worry. The car took you there and it knew the way well enough. We sat while the road went for time enough to get there, listening to Jordan’s shitty music and talking about why it was good.
        Eventually there it was, a lighted four story building with only one floor, covered in painted explosions and giant letters claiming the best ever and biggest ever and cheapest ever. Inside it was sun. Rows of fire half labeled in Chinese and wrapped in paper and wrapped in plastic and stuck on shelves and put in barrels and put in boxes. We had $40 and we spent it well. There are other places to go when you’re not sleeping, but that was the good one.


Justin Evans likes to write and is going to school to learn how to do it better. He is from Marietta, Georgia, home of the Big Chicken, but now lives in North Carolina, where he enjoys the mountains. He enjoys all sorts of cheeses, but was sad to realize this year that sharp cheeses give him headaches.