Neil went inside the church school and found the gymnasium. People arrived, shoes squeaking on the floor. He thought perhaps the minister would show up and deliver a bonus sermon: “Listen, folks, just because it’s the Fourth of July don’t mean you should go out there and fornicate like cows. Maintain dignity. Keep hands in pockets and knees crossed. That’s your birth control.”
         Amongst the five women was a blonde who smiled in his direction. She shuffled her feet in movie-like shyness. It was cute but pathetic and he was charmed and annoyed. He knew that two shy people can never meet because one must be at least slightly more extroverted than the other, or else they would stand on opposite sides of the room and never speak. Neil believed these are the things you either blame on God or accept as plain accident, not something for which to thank the Lord or take the blame yourself.
         He knew he was supposed to do a lot of thanking and apologizing in this life. After all, he had spent the last year attending services of Christian Scientists, Latter-day Saints, Episcopalians, Southern Baptists, American Baptists, Unitarian Universalists, Evangelical Lutherans, United Methodists, Reformed Presbyterians, Roman Catholics, Old Catholics, and on and on, until he felt that he had tried to count the stars and failed. There were a million ways to thank the Lord and say you’re sorry, but he left each church as empty as he arrived.
         The blonde walked over and said, “Go for a walk?”
         He nodded. Anywhere was better, the gym reminding him of the rope-burned palms he suffered while sliding to the bottom of the President’s Physical Fitness Test.
         They walked down a long hallway with gray lockers and shiny gray tiles, the gray reflecting in the shine so that it seemed as though they were walking in a steel cloud. The lockers were occasionally personalized by graffiti that had been scratched out by a janitor who had left no trace of lies about True Love Always and We’re #1.
         The blonde still shuffled more than she walked, swinging one foot around and lolling to the left, then swinging the other foot around and lulling to the right, like a ship with feet.
         She should talk first, he figured, since she was obviously more extroverted. However, she did not seem to understand this and that bothered him. He watched for signs, little things, like did she talk about her parents night and day or mention anything at all about some kid at home or make any reference to past suicide attempts or ask him about his lottery picks? Did she sing commercial jingles or chew half sticks of gum or bite her hair or blather on about her job or mention too many aunts and uncles or talk about the funny weather or bring up a tanning salon or ask about the situation in the Middle East or wonder about the sun and stars and moon and do their motions affect our lives?
         They approached a trophy case full of bronze men and women holding footballs, baseballs, basketballs, golf clubs. Some of the figures were running, some diving, some jumping, and one crouched, on the lookout for Greco-Roman wrestlers. The bronze made him think of bourbon.
         “Look at all those trophies,” she said, her face bright with amazement.
         “They’re just trophies.”
         “You’re jealous,” she said.
         He began to fear that she was a feisty Sally Field type.
         “Do you come here often?” she asked.  “I used to myself, but then I—and so now I—”
         He nodded, filling in the blanks for her. Her ex-boyfriend’s name was Charlie and he sold cars. He went to church every other Sunday. When she pressed him to go more often, he blew his balding top and said, “Goddamn it, leave me alone.” She said, “Such language!” He said, “I go to church for customers, not God. Minister Jenkins refers ‘em straight to me, the stupid son of a bitch. Now back off.” She wagged her finger and in a feisty manner said, “Mister, pack your things and go. Don’t let the door hit you in the buns on the way out.” She watched Charlie leave and was proud of herself, especially after praying for his health and well-being.
         She pointed at one of the trophies. “What’s that one for?”
         “I think they call it trap shooting. This must be a rich school.”
         “People work hard here,” she said.
         He decided it was best to agree with her and said, “I guess.”
         “The fireworks start at nine. We should join the others.”
         “No,” he said. “Let’s watch by ourselves.”
         Outside, more kids held sparklers and the light sprayed in the air like water in a fountain. Events were trying to show him something, the whole world hinting at it, but he didn’t know what.
         The church was at the top of a hill and the smooth blacktop drive leading to it stretched half a mile to the main road and all its potholes. Although they would be able to see the fireworks perfectly from the hill, he noticed that the parking lot was filling with kids running around laughing and yelling. He was beginning to feel irritated that he and this woman whose name he had never bothered asking would not be able to enjoy the fireworks by themselves. What began as the possibility of two people falling in love under a sky filled with streaking fireworks had turned into a parking lot full of brats and a feisty woman who had already decided against pursuing a future with him.
         Soon, she would say something about how she wasn’t ready for anything serious and was looking for a friend, that he shouldn’t get the wrong idea just because she came to a singles event. That he was nice but not exactly right for her. That it was something she could not put in words, something vague, but if she had to be specific, a feeling that the trophies in the school hallway meant something to her and nothing to him, and that he hadn’t even bothered asking her name.
         They found a tree and she leaned against it, indicating, he guessed, that she had decided it would be too intimate to sit on the ground with him. But the grass was cut so neatly that it might as well have been a blanket, so he sat down, almost forcing her to join him.
         She sat down, looked away from him and said, “Haven’t I seen you at the meetings?”
         A long time ago he had quit smoking. Otherwise, now would have been a perfect time to light up and blow the smoke at the sky that so enraptured her, while he ignored her in the coolest possible fashion.
         “I guess you probably have,” he said.
         “You guess? Well, that was you, wasn’t it? You never talk. I hate talking, too. They call on me, but I just shake my head. Who wants to talk about it? I talk with my sponsor if I have to talk about that, but I hardly ever even do that. I talked enough about those days when I was living them, know what I mean? I’ve got my higher power and that pulls me through. But my sponsor says if I quit attending meetings, it’s a sign that I’m setting myself up or something. So I keep going.”
         “I only go because I have to,” he said, and knew what he was about to say would be the end of anything between them. “If I didn’t have to, I’d never sit in that goddamn room again.”
         “Oh,” she said, and her mouth remained in the shape of an “O” while she absorbed what he had said.
         “Well,” she said.
         “Yeah,” he said, standing and stretching.
         “To be honest,” she said, “I stay away from holidays. Big drinking days, you know? Better off avoiding them. I forgot. I should probably get going.”
         “I know,” he said, although the Fourth of July was the first holiday since the accident and he had longed for it the way a cheating husband hopes his wife gives him a good reason to cheat.
         They started walking toward the parking lot. In the silence, he predicted to himself that she was destined to be called “poochie” by some husband who maintained faith without rumination. The husband would favor cuddly sweaters and shake his head and laugh when she spelled out words like S-H-I-T and G.D. The husband would worship Michael Jordan and Tiger Woods and worry about the how the children are the future.
         These were things Neil could never offer. They were biologically impossible for him.
         “Unconditional love is what we want,” she said, “but only God can give it. Why are you laughing?”
         Because, he wanted to say, God has more fucking conditions than a used car warranty. Instead, he said, “I’m really tired. Guess I’ve got the giggles.”
         They came to a Volkswagen bug with a smashed front fender. He opened the door as she touched the bronze lion that was screwed into the hood, an ornament purchased the day before the accident. It was the kind of thing that looked good to him when he was drunk and stupid the next day, but he and the lion grew closer in the crumpling of the car and he left it there as a reminder of everything that had happened before and since.
         “What on earth happened to your fender?”
         “I killed a man,” he said. “Then I kept going, but I felt bad and pulled over when the cops got behind me.”
         She stared at him.
         “You’ve got angry eyes,” she said. “I don’t believe in anger.”
         He realized all at once, as if a star had just exploded, “I do.”
         He felt his heart race with pleasure at the revelation. He knew his anger would always be with him, even when he had no evidence of it, like the moon on a cloudy night. I am safe inside the lion’s jaw, he thought, and climbed into his car.
         “Where are you going?” she said.
         “I have to go,” he said. “I’m through with church people.”
         She touched his arm. “You need a higher power. God is everywhere.”
         He shrugged and slammed the door, then started the car and drove away. He found the half pint of bourbon beneath the seat, all that was left from his last bender before the accident. He had stashed the bottle in case he ever needed a reminder of why he no longer drank, but also for a second reason. He unscrewed the cap, took a long drink and set the bottle down. He continued driving, the word A-N-G-E-R spelling itself across the sky in a blurred halo of fireworks that lit his way like Christmas tree lights.

PAUL A. TOTH lives in Michigan. His short fiction has appeared in The Barcelona Review, The Mississippi Review Online, Exquisite Corpse and many others, with nominations for the Pushcart prize and Best American Mystery Stories. His novel Fizz will be published in late 2003 by Bleak House Books. He recently completed his second novel. His official website at www.netpt.tv includes complete credits, news and audio stories.