I Burst Into Flames
Small inefficiencies, pointless energy outlays, and wasted movements in
daily living are now punishable by spontaneous combustion. Scientists
are baffled.
Some shocking testimonials:
Paul Q.: I never eat falafel. I'm not even sure I like falafel. I
mean, it's just okay. But one night I was really craving it, even though
I was halfway through making dinner, a totally non-falafel kind of
dinner. I abandoned this partly-made meal, got in my car and drove over
to this falafel place I know, and just as I pulled up they were flipping
the sign around to Closed. So instead of thinking that falafel
clearly wasn't meant to be that night, I drove to the gas station and
parked over by the phones. I got out and started searching the phone
book, looking for any place that sounded like it might have falafel,
anything Middle Eastern. I found one takeout joint that looked
promising, so I tore out that page, got back in my car and drove over
there. I got lost twice and it took me almost forty-five minutes, but I
finally found it. They were closed too, and when I checked the menu
posted in the window I noticed that they didn't even serve falafel. And
that's when I burst into flames. I should have just called when I was at
the payphone. Actually, staying home would've been even better.
Sharon S.: I took the laundry out of the dryer and set the
clothes basket down at the foot of the stairs, intending to take it up
when I went to bed. But then an hour later when I decided to turn in, I
walked right past it. I mean, I saw it. But it just didn't register for
some reason, you know? When it hit me later in bed I thought well isn't
that just the darnedest thing, and I got up, put my robe on and went
back
to get it in the middle of the night--which makes even less sense
if you think about it. And when I got down
there I burst into flames. I guess I can't really complain, I was being pretty silly.
Bjorn W.: I had burst into flames more times than anyone in my
building, more even than the silly woman on Twelve who periodically
locked herself out of her apartment or drove off with groceries on the
roof of her car. I gradually became aware of the murmurings in the lobby
and in the corridors, the sneering whispers about my status as the most
personally inefficient and illogical tenant in the entire complex. I was
an object of derision even as I hobbled by in my most recent
convalescence. Stung by such cruelty, I resolved to change my ways,
especially since the doctors had informed me that I had no more suitable
skin graft sites on my body, every inch of me was either burned or had
already provided replacement tissue. The time had come to turn myself
into a paragon of efficiency, cat-like in the economy of my movements
and my swift but canny bursts of action. I studied martial arts, I
meditated, I made not a single motion without careful consideration.
Life for me had become a game of chess, I was always thinking several
moves ahead. Coming home from my final doctor visit, I parked in my
numbered space and strode toward the lobby a changed man. My bandages
were finally all removed, my limp was gone, and with steely feline
awareness I pushed through the revolving doors, feeling the eyes of my
neighbors upon me. Time seemed to slow down as I scanned their slack
faces, noticing in each some damnable flaw, some repellent imperfection.
It was my triumph. I had not merely attained an acceptable level of
physical shrewdness and logic, I had, in fact, soared past them all and
become something wholly different, a superior being the likes of which
had never been glimpsed in either the main building or the new annex.
Well, I must've gotten lost in the reverie. Somehow I went all the way
around and ended up back outside. When I pushed my way through to the
lobby again, I burst into flames.
Ronnie Cordova lives in Portland, Oregon. His work has appeared in various places and his curmudgeonly but somehow winsome daily journal can be found at www.sublethal.net.