It was the fourth of July.
Seymour Skinner could feel himself already shivering as he and the mob of partygoers, in their all-American fervor, looked up at the night sky anticipating the traditional fireworks. He'd gone with his mother despite his own strong disinterest. It was already 1980, yet it seemed as if the war was still going on. All the scars, both physical and mental, were still fresh to him. Especially his back injury which once forced him in a wheelchair, but through recovery he'd updated to using a walking stick.
His mother Agnes sat next to him in the ordered lawn chairs, as did Chalmers, his new acquaintance and experienced superintendent of the elementary school. Ever since he met Chalmers, he'd shown an interest in wanting to become the new principal of the school, especially when the former principal was planning to retire.
Seymour groaned, knowing it would be uncomfortable to hear all the loud noises and be reminded of his background, but continued to stay put and leaned forward on his walking stick. Chalmers, though older in age and more wizened in life's turmoils, glared at the younger man as if he were his annoying brother instead of somebody who could lead a new generation of elementary students.
Chalmers cleared his throat, "You're a war veteran, Skinner. Be patriotic."
Seymour snapped, dropping his walking stick onto the grass and holding on to Chalmer's hands with shaky frustration, "What's so patriotic about war?!"
"Seymour!", his mother exclaimed angrily.
Chalmers shook his head, "Leave this to us, Agnes."
"Skinner," the superintendent withdrew his hands from Seymour's, "If you're going to be the school's principal, you'll have to keep quiet about your personal life."
"There's nothing patriotic about killing innocent people, Chalmers."
With that, he picked up his walking stick and trudged off, leaving the superintendent in the dust, his mother following suit. Chalmers murmured something to himself, wondering if this man was really mentally stable enough to become a principal.
"Seymour, you couldn't go five minutes without being triggered?" Agnes scolded, "Why did you come here, then?"
"You begged me to," Seymour continued limping forward.
Mother and son continued their bickering until they bumped into a young couple with their child in tow.
Seymour stammered, re-balancing himself on his walking stick, his mother grumbling behind him. He managed to smile at the bewildered couple, who had just arrived to the party a little late.
"I apologize. My mother and I were going...to the bathroom," he took a quick glance at Agnes, whose angry looks intensified.
The other man laughed heartily, "It's all right, G.I. Joe. Marge and I just arrived for the cake-" his wife bumped him-"and the fireworks! And the patriotism. God bless America."
Seymour chuckled nervously, "Er, G.I. Joe? H-how did you know I was-"
"Can you think of anyone else wearing a camo jacket and carrying a cane? My grampa, maybe."
The couple's toddler son waddled up to Seymour's leg and giggled, "Gee Joe! Gee Joe!"
"Bart!" Marge scooped him up and excused herself, "I'm sorry, we really need to find seats, It was nice bumping into you."
While the young family went their way to the lawn chairs, Agnes continued to glare at her son.
"Seymour, did you see that couple? They were well-put together. Learn from them."
"They never went to war."
"And I wish you didn't."
Seymour groaned in frustration, giving up his efforts to go back home. His mother was persistent, and she was going to stay persistent. He could feel the fireworks starting up, and he hated it. The crowd was already cheering and becoming impatient. Seymour tried to cover his ears as Agnes dragged him back to the seats. Chalmers inspected him closely, checking for any reaction that might occur.
And right on cue, the sky exploded with colors and noise. Seymour focused on the grassy ground instead. He didn't want to hear the fireworks and he certainly didn't want to look at them, either. He tried to keep it in his thoughts that all that was happening was in good fun, and that nobody was in any danger. There was no state of emergency.
He was drawing circles in the dirt when a pair of green shoes appeared in front of his eyes. Seymour looked up to see a matching green dress belonging to a woman who appeared to be around a decade younger than him. She was holding a glass of wine in one hand, and had a look of curiosity in her eyes.
"Are you all right, sir? You're not watching the fireworks."
Seymour blinked, "N-no. I am not all right, no."
She laughed, a single resounding chuckle, "I knew that, silly. You're a war vet, aren't you?"
Seymour looked pained, "Is it really that obvious?"
She said nothing but offered him a drink. Agnes was now glaring at the woman instead of Seymour, and Chalmers admired her silently. Seymour reluctantly took the wine glass and took a sip from it.
"Thank you, ma'am. But it is a little sudden."
She chuckled again, "Don't worry, I know you, you're the guy I saw at the school. You want to become the next principal after the old one croaks."
Seymour mumbled, "Ah, yes. You must be from the school, too?"
The woman winked, "Almost. I'm still training to be a teacher. My name's Edna, by the way. Edna Krabappel."
"S-Seymour Skinner."
The fireworks continued to roar, but all Seymour could look at was the woman in green, with her proud chuckle and wise, yet curious eyes.
Maybe the fourth of July wasn't so bad after all.