The clueless patriot.

A ag waving, star spangled all-American boy gets caught up in the 4th of July rocket’s red glare. Hold on, Christopher Klimovski is Aussie.

In a New York City summer, most days are spent practicing the hidden art of the museum saunter to escape the heat given off by the gum-laden sidewalks. On days I dare to venture out into the great unknown, I usually visit Central Park to stand atop a boulder and survey the land like Simba from The Lion King. Everything the sun touches is mine.

At the peak of my very first summer in New York City I understood that there were many things this concrete jungle still had to teach me. I learned that despite a city teeming with driven professionals, all bar courtyards would be packed from 3pm onwards, making it impossible for you to find a seat outside. I also learned the sacred technique of ignoring the beads of sweat snaking their way down your back and crack as you wait for a subway train on the pressure-cooker platform. But one of my fondest memories occurred one particularly hot summer’s day in July. The 4th of July, to be specific.

Before the alarm had the opportunity to ruin my morning, I awoke from the sheer weight of my T-shirt and briefs, which had absorbed all my sweat throughout the night. I soggily made my way to the bathroom, greeting the cockroaches on my way, and stood under the cold water the showerhead spat out. Today was my very first American holiday and I was determined to celebrate it in the most stereotypical way. I reached my hand out of the shower, cracked open a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and sipped it as the water washed away the initial stages of heat stroke.

I figured my first task would be to hit up souvenir stores to purchase anything patriotic. For the bargain price of $27 I managed to grab: an American flag, “America the Great” temporary eagle tattoos, a bull horn that read ’MERICA, and red, white and blue Mardi Gras beads in hopes of coaxing strangers to show me their tits. “By the way,” I inquired, “What’s the meaning of this holiday?”

“For me it means people come in here and buy a lot of stupid shit,” replied the shop owner. Excellent, and American. I was on my way to understanding the true meaning of the holiday.

I decided rationing alcohol should not be a concern on the 4th of July, as I believed it to be the elixir of friendship and therefore it would be vital to my survival in this city. Chinese-made patriotic paraphernalia and cheap beer in tow, my expectations were simple: get absolutely hammered with strangers and hope the night takes me within walking distance of a familiar bed.

I made my way to the rooftop party of a friend of a friend who I had met at a club whose location now exists only in theory. Have you ever moved cities, countries and, if the Mars program works out, planets? That shit is fucking HARD. You enter each social situation with a smile and laughter that could very well be genuine, but for the most part is manufactured in the hopes you don’t rub anybody the wrong way. Every party has the potential to introduce you to a new clique, a new enemy or a new lover. I opted for the Brooklyn rooftop party because it’s always a pretty dope option, the sole reason being that on a clear day the view of Manhattan is breathtaking.

I made my way up the steps of the sevenstory walk-up. To quote buxom blonde Cherysh from Absolutely Fabulous, “I’m borderline shy/wild”, so I figured my safest bet was to stay overly positive and laugh off everybody’s complaints and desire for a “fucking elevator”. I emerged onto the rooftop, darted my head from left to right hoping to see a semi-familiar face, or even a kind smile. Receiving neither, I dropped the beer into a cooler. My American PBR’s floated buoyantly beside their fancy and imported brethren. Cracking a beer, I took a rooftop seat by a girl

Have you ever moved cities, countries and, if the Mars program works out, planets? That shit is fucking HARD.

with a kind face and wild hair. “Happy 4th,” I said, offering her a cheers. “Them damned presidents, huh?” I added, just to show that despite not knowing what I was cheers-ing to, I was at least making an effort. She told me her name was Megan and she worked in HR for Absolut vodka, “I’m poor as a monk, but I can drink like a punk so it all works out.” I identified her as a Common Mortal based on that statement alone.

I prompted Megan to show me a drinking game, as I wanted to have the most authentic of American experiences. She complimented the eagle rub-on tattoo that I had strategically placed on my neck, and asked from which trailer park I hailed. Before long, we were motioning to a group of dapperly dressed gay men to help us move a table to play a drinking game known simply as “flip-cup”.

Each one of the Dapper Gays took turns to explain the rules. They spoke as if they had rehearsed their parts individually and then together as a group to assure fluidity. The game commenced and I was fucking terrible at it. Everyone seemed to allow for my fumbling strategy because I compensated for it with overt Australianisms: “Bugger me!” etcetera. The game achieved its purpose; I was soon my own independent microbrewery. We were all well inebriated and turned to face the party where a live band began performing.

Socialisation rapidly defused, like the smell of poppers in the air. I spoke to each of the Dapper Gays separately, away from their close-shouldered pack, about fashion and Broadway and eventually the fact I didn’t know much about any of it. As the alcohol took effect, much of the party was eagerly awaiting its illicit counterpart and the Dapper Gays were feverishly on the phone to assure its arrival. Megan and I were eyeing drunk girls wavering too close to the rooftop’s edge when I turned to ask her, “What is this holiday all about?” She began, “It’s really simple. It marks the day…” but she was cut short by the lead Dapper Gay who interrupted to inform us that their friend Charlie *wink, wink* had arrived.

I was running out of presidential names and revolutionary facts to tell people when I wanted to display my knowledge of the celebration. I must have seemed like a crazy drunk uncle with all my nonsensical mumblings, but it’s incredible what a foreign accent allows you to get away with in the United States. Foreign English-speaking accents are accepted here, so that may be the only successful outreach of the Commonwealth.

I had completely given up attempting to discover the true meaning of the holiday the moment Megan handed me a fourth glass of straight vodka on ice. I had run out of Mardi Gras beads within the first hour when the Dapper Gays not only got their tits out, but removed their shirts for the remainder of the party. The only thing left to do was blow my ’MERICA bullhorn in a drunken attempt to recreate an authentic American movie moment. I let a loud blast of the horn fill the air like an eruption and everybody took it as a sign to scream, cheer and finish their drinks.

The party began to wind down and the attendees were in an absolute frenzy to organise their next destination. I, ever the people-pleaser, was happy to follow the pack. As the crowd began to thin, I noticed the glittery allure of the city facing me come alive. I had a cheap beer in my hand, the balmy New York air rushing over my skin and I realised that on July 4th, Manhattan looks so impressively American. Even if I didn’t fully grasp the meaning of the holiday, at least I knew that if I smile, nod and flip a cup, all would be well.