Fireworks

The acrid smell of burning gunpowder lingers in the air for only a second before a group of nearly a thousand cyclists tear through the cloud of smoke hovering in the air. It’s the 4th of July, downtown Los Angeles, the annual firework ride put together by grassroot groups organizing themselves on Instagram. The numerous booms and flashes of light are followed by whoops and cheers, enthusiastic riders scream smiling obscenities into the night air. The night had started an hour earlier in south LA, well past sunset, meeting up in a vacant parking lot next to a park. The atmosphere festive from the very beginning, friends and strangers sharing joints, passing bottles back and forth, opening backpacks to reveal their explosive stash with a sly smile, knowing it would all be smoke in a few hours. Some people are in costume, wearing capes, masks, full body hot dog suits, everyone smiling and laughing, itching to hit the road, get pedaling, cause a little organized chaos. Within minutes of leaving the lot people are shooting roman candles at each other, tossing firecrackers, throwing mortars into empty alleyways, all while riding through the streets of Los Angeles on their bikes, designated riders volunteering to block the lights so the pack can proceed uninterrupted. Turning down Broadway the group slows down, cheering at the pedestrians on the sidewalk, the unsuspecting strangers smiling in awe at this raucous group passing by them, tourists getting a taste of LA to bring back home.

One rider has mortar tubes strapped to his handlebars at a 45 degree angle, with the spark of a torch a monstrous star shell explodes above our heads in the middle of the street. The deafening boom reverberating off the skyscrapers, red and green lights dance, bouncing off the walls of the buildings and landing in the street below, laughing, screams of surprise, enthusiastic hollers, I should have worn earplugs. The party continues unabated through the streets until it reaches a construction site below the unfinished 6th street bridge, somebody had cut the chain well before we got there, a full band complete with drum sets and amps was setup in the corner, blasting punk rock for the crowd. I scale a shipping container and take a seat, dodging an errant roman candle sent rocketing towards my head, one of the girls on the container screams and tells her boyfriend it’s time to leave now. This irresponsible sight before me is something to behold, hundreds of people setting off fireworks by the dozen, dancing, partying, chatting with their friends between the booming shells, its truly beautiful. A half an hour later the party is still raging, but a new guest has arrived, a helicopter piloted by the LAPD.

The critical mass of the riders had allowed us to do almost anything up until that point, taking over streets, private property, defying law and order, but now the hammer came down. “Clear the area or you will be arrested! This is an unlawful gathering, leave now or you will be prosecuted!” The megaphone on that helicopter was powerful, the commands were clearly audible over the din of the fireworks and jeering boos of the spectators. The spotlight is sweeping over the crowd, landing on the band and their moshing audience, dozens of middle fingers are sent skyward, “Fuck you!” cries the group. Somebody sends a mortar at the helicopter, it explodes in a blue flash of sparkles too close for the pilot, he retreats slightly but keeps the spotlight sweeping and commands blaring. The band scrambles to pack up their gear, tossing it into the back of beat-up minivan parked behind them, riders start mounting up, throwing empty bottles and finding their friends, ready to run. Somebody tells me that last year they had an actual firework battle with the riot police, trading mortars and roman candles with tear gas and handcuffs. This year it doesn’t come to that, the group hastily packs up and leaves, knowing what waits for them if they don’t, but I hang back, the last person left in the site. I watch as a line of close to 50 police in full riot gear walk out of the shadows, helmets strapped and batons in hand, they sweep across the construction site, the parking lot, the roundabout, kicking bottles and trash out of their way. They must have been staging for a while without anybody realizing, at least until the helicopter showed up, if they had rushed in they probably could have made some arrests, I doubt they wanted the fight and paperwork though. I have been standing in the middle of the road, watching, when I make eye contact with one the cops who stares at me with malice, clearly irritated he has to deal with rowdy delinquents instead of enjoying the holiday with family. I turn tail and set off at top speed, not wanting an arrest on my record.

It turns out the organizers had planned for this, a second band was already setup at the second spot, an abandoned storage yard sandwiched between the LA river and the 5 freeway, usually a dangerous spot to be alone but not when hundreds of people have taken over. By the time I caught up with the group the energy has changed, people are inebriated, almost crashing into each other, what had been a previously peaceful night has taken a turn, it feels aggressive and dangerous now. I turn down the dirt access road to the new venue, passing below an overpass its almost pitch black, the only lights are from handlebars of the bikes and red glow behind the new band, playing high tempo Latin ska, people sloppily dancing in the dirt underfoot. Climbing up the freeway embankment with a few others we sit and watch. Cars speeding just feet behind us, occasionally blaring their horns at the group of trespassers risking their lives, one of the guys climbing slips and tumbles halfway down the embankment back into the party, sending dust into the air. By now the fireworks have been spent, just some small sparkling gizmos, and the last few roman candles, it’s all about getting as fucked up as possible now, no regard given to riding home. I decide its time to leave, the jovial chaos of the night is gone, and I don’t want to be here when a fight breaks out over a shoe being stepped on, or an accusation of a stolen bike.

Tossing my last handful of firecrackers into the concrete river below I listen to it’s echo and set off back towards the city. By now its past midnight, the cool air soothing my lungs having spent the past few hours bathed in smoke, distant booms of the city’s other parties crackle in the distance. I fly through Chinatown, glancing around at the various parties, groups by their cars, smoking on the sidewalks, it’s so peaceful in comparison, so quiet and calm. What a night, spent with complete strangers in the darkness, the flash of fireworks briefly illuminating their features, a boom following. Glinting smiles, hearty laughter, spinning wheels, deflagration, time well spent, maybe I’ll come back next year.