THE FOURTH
by D.R.Peak

It was the fourth, and March and Uncle Ken were arguing.

     "I'm not gonna celebrate.  It's not like we have any freedoms in this country, anyway," March, my older, yet definitely "smarter" brother, was saying.

     "How the hell can you say that?" Uncle Ken snapped back.

     "I just did.  We don't have any independence, no real freedoms; it's all a hype, a trick.  The government is basically just screwing us all over." He said it with the emotion of someone who's just woke up from a deep sleep, as if he was still half-dreaming or hypnotized.  He laid on the couch with a pile of blankets covering his legs, one arm draped over his eyes like he was the corpse of Scarlett O'Hara pretending not to care.  I just sat in the recliner, pretending to be reading and not paying attention to the two of them.  Uncle Ken continued on, undaunted by March's lack of enthusiasm.

     "Okay then, if that's what you think, then why don't you go find some better country and go live there? Why stay here if you don't agree with what's going on?" Uncle Ken used to be a cop many years ago.  He was attempting to stop a holdup attempt when he was shot and beaten.  They took his gun but he was able to crawl back to his car, call for backup and chase them for four miles, finally ramming them with his patrol car.  He killed one of them when they tried to flee on foot by pinning him against the wall of a Seven-Eleven and snapping him in two.  Uncle Ken's legs were shot out from under him as he tried to go after the others.  Uncle Ken was one tough nut.

     "Maybe I'll move to Holland," March said, sitting and rubbing the gunk out of his eyes.

     "Why, so you can smoke dope in peace?" Uncle Ken's remark caused March to glance around to see if Mom was within earshot; he told her that he had stopped that two months ago after getting pulled over and written up for possession.  But a hundred-and-fifty dollar fine and two months of community service, and he was still at it; now even selling to his friends. 

     "Sure, why not?" he said once assured that the coast was clear.  "That's more than I can do around here."

     "You'd trade one freedom for a hundred others? There's lots of things you can't do in other countries that you take for granted here."

     "Well, smoking pot all I want, when and where I want, would make up for anything else, believe me."

     "Well, go then! Move!" Uncle Ken was nearly red in the face now. 

     March answered him with reluctant aloofness, "I don't have enough money," then slumped back against the couch, lighting up a cigarette.

     "Money, schmoney; that's always your problem.  You always got enough money to buy weed or a six-pack, don't you? And you got a car, too, don't you? Well you can sell it and be on the other side of the Atlantic by Saturday.  Piece of cake; solve all your damn problems."

     "I won't have a job when I get there."

     "So, big deal.  You don't have a job now.  You can't sponge off my sister forever."

     That sort of ended the conversation for now; March said nothing, smoked his cigs, and flipped through the channels on the cable.  Uncle Ken brooded in his wheelchair.  I got up and went outside to see what was going on with the rest of my family.

     "Kids," I heard Uncle Ken mutter as I slid the glass door shut behind me. 

     Outside it was the usual holiday family get-together cookout scene.  Uncle Den, Uncle Ken's twin brother, was flipping burgers on the grill; his wife, Sally, was shooing away the flies from the potato salad along with Aunt Maye and Grandma Struyker; several of my cousins and their friends were goofing off in the pool.  Mom was nowhere to be seen. 

     "Hey, Maggie!" shouted cousin Nelson from the pool.  "Put on your bikini and jump on in! It's way too hot to wear jeans today." All of Nelson's little buddies stopped their horseplay to stare at me.  Nelson himself was hanging his arms over the side of the pool, practically drooling at me.  I thought about what Uncle Ken said to March--kids, I knew just what he meant. 

     "No thanks, Nelson.  Gonna get me some grub." Nelson was Aunt Sally's son from her first marriage--thirteen and got his education from watching Porky's and the Three Stooges on late night TV.  That and video games and Dungeon and Dragons.  I ignored him and walked over to where Aunt Maye was, still shooing flies away from the potato salad.

     "Hey, Mags," she said to me.  "Where's your friend, Patsy?" She meant Pepsi; Aunt Maye always assumed that she had heard Pepsi's name mispronounced the first time and continued to call her Patsy.  We gave up trying to correct her after the umpteenth time.

     "Pepsi?" I said, knowing full well that she wouldn't get it, "She's in Easthill.  Family thing." I sat and grabbed a paper plate and piled on potato salad and corn on the cob.

     "Hey, it's not time to eat, yet," Aunt Maye said to me.

     "It's okay," I told her, "I'm not eating hamburgers."

     "That's right, you're still doing that vegetarian thing." She shook her head condescendingly and clucked her tongue.  "Thought you would've outgrown that by now."

     "Nope," I said, pouring myself some iced tea.  I wasn't really a vegetarian.  I just didn't like the way Uncle Den did his hamburgers, all full of chili powder, minced onions, and oregano.  I saw them so infrequently that they never caught on to that lie.  Once a summer and maybe at Christmas I'd see this side of my family--and maybe if somebody was to get married or something.  More than once I actually had thought about never eating meat again, but I'd invariably drive by a McDonald's or the Taco Palace up the street and that idea would fly out the window. 

     A bunch of hollering came from the direction of the pool.  Nelson was giving Carl, youngest of the cousins, a wedgie.  Carl was screaming so loud you'd think he was being beaten.  Aunt Sally ran over to discipline Nelson, but he and his friends (of which there must have been a dozen), just laughed at her.

     "Burgers done!" barked Uncle Den.  Nelson and his friends made a mass exodus from the pool, and ran to the table; not even bothering to towel off.  Mom appeared, a pot of baked beans in her oven-mitted hands. 

     "So here you are, and eating already.  Don't you want one of your Uncle Den's burgers?"

     "No, Mom.  Don't you remember?" I rolled my eyes and stuck one finger in my mouth like I was trying to make myself throwup.

     "That's right," she said.  "How about a hot dog then?" I shook my head violently; hot dogs are one thing I absolutely stayed away from.  I didn't even want to know what was in those things.

     March came out right about then, and cut right in front of Nelson's buddy, Tony.

     "Hey, you can't do that!" Nelson protested.  Nelson was a few spaces in front of Tony, but he had just turned around to say something to him.

     "You're right," March agreed, and then walked up the few feet to step in line directly in front of Nelson.  "But I can do this."

     "Hey!" Nelson said, but March ignored him and started making his sandwich, taking his time by piling two burgers onto one bun along with a heaping of baked beans and potato salad.  He lingered for a moment, licking the grease from his fingers.  As he turned and left the table he stared bug-eyed at Nelson, daring him to say something.

     "You're kind of pigging out there, aren't you brother?" I said as he passed where I sat.

     "Nope, it's not for me, I got it for Uncle Ken."

     "Oh." That caught me by surprise; March never did anything for anyone but himself; and he especially never did anything for an older family member who criticized his lifestyle.  When I looked down I noticed something red and yellow heaped all over March's shoes.  "What...?" I pointed at his feet and he looked down.  Nelson and his buddies immediately began to howl with laughter and March and I realized what had happened: while March was busy fixing a plate for Uncle Ken, one of Nelson's buddies had snuck under the table and squirted ketchup and mustard all over his shoes.

     "Kids," muttered March, kicking his shoes off before going inside.

Copyright D.R.Peak 1998