South Carolina

We were in fourth grade.
Another fall day in the suburbs,
shooting BB guns in the back yard.
Michael's dad, a short, slightly balding Vietnam vet,
stood by watching us.
He was still in his bathrobe, smoking cigarettes and sipping coffee.
After we shot our fill of soda bottles,
we blew up some GI Joes with firecrackers.
The good ones severed the rubber cords inside the little soldiers,
releasing all the limbs and and the pelvis from the green plastic torsos.
After a while we ran low,
and started talking about where to get more fireworks,
as they were still illegal in Georgia.
Alabama was one option.
Michael's dad suggested South Carolina.
"Really? They're legal in South Carolina?"
"Yeah," he said, with a little squint and a little smile,
taking another sip of coffee.
"Everything's legal in South Carolina."
We faked a knowing chuckle,
having no idea what he was talking about.
I'm actually still not sure what he meant.