Honoring Anarchy

No. 38: Learn who Guy Fawkes is

“I’m here to celebrate the invention of the Fox Trot!” I exclaim as Zeddy pulls his car into an old farm house.

“Your grasp of British history is truly astounding.”

Walking up a gravel road the sky is the kind of dark black you can only find in a city where smog makes stars non-existent. I’m breathing in and out, watching the little clouds of smoke my breath forms on the air, and pretend I’m making cigarette smoke rings.

Zeddy, who’s smoking an actual cigarette, stamps out the butt before we walk into the brightly lit farm house that is serving as party headquarters on this cold autumn night.

“Happy Guy Fawkes Day!” says an over enthusiastic wait staff who takes our coats as we enter the converted barn. The room is full of people sitting at picnic tables and chowing down on hotdogs. There’s a bar in the back with open bottles of wine, and Zeddy and I turn in that direction.

“So, in 1605 a man named Guy Fawkes formed what we call the Gunpowder Plot,” Zeddy says as he pours me a glass of pinot. “He wanted to overthrow the British government by blowing up the House of Parliament, and he stored barrels of gunpowder under the place, ready to blow it to bits on November 5.”

“Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” says a familiar-looking man as he walks up and pats Zeddy on the back.

“Good evening Dan, thanks so much for the fizzle,” Zeddy says, holding up his glass in a mock cheers.

“Hello,” the man says, extending his hand to me. “I’m Dan Patterson.”

“Oh yes, of course, we met a few months ago at the charity dinner,” I say, setting down my glass and shaking Dan’s hand. “I’m Zeddy’s new American colleague.”

“That’s right. And how are you finding our country?”

“I’m finding it very cold.”

“Yes,” he replies with a laugh. “It is that.”

“Erica’s writing a column for the paper, she’s doing all sorts of British-ey things,” Zeddy says while swirling his glass.

“British-ey things. Like what?”

“You know, letting her teeth fall out and all that.”

“Actually, I’m a bit stuck; I don’t think my last few pieces have been very entertaining.”

“We’re sending her to Israel next week,” Zeddy adds. “To help her get some inspiration.”

“Israel? That’s fantastic,” Dan says, turning to me. He then looks confused. “What’s so British about Israel?”

“I’m not sure,” I reply. “But it feels very exotic, and I imagine the English to be very exotic.”

“Exotic? Are we exotic Zeddy?” Dan asks.

“Mmm, yes, quite.”

“Fireworks outside in one minute everyone,” the harried-looking wait staff shouts.

“Zeddy, you didn’t finish explaining why you celebrate some guy trying to blow up your parliament,” I say as we head outside. It’s gotten colder and I pull my scarf tighter around my neck as someone starts handing out boxes of sparklers.

“Because, we like fireworks,” he says, lighting up his own sparkler and helping get mine started. My cell begins to vibrate and I juggle the fiery stick in my hand as I pull out my phone from my pocket.

“It’s a text from Lauren,” I explain, reading her message. “Zeddy, she got the job!” I shout, as an explosion of our-parliament-didn’t-burn-down fireworks erupts over my head.