I AM THE KID WHO PLAYED with matches. I used to steal them from the shelf above the refrigerator, takethem into my parents’ bathroom. Jean Naté Bath Splash ignites, did you know that? Spill it, strike, and youcan set fire to the floor. It burns blue, and when the alcohol is gone, it stops.
Once, Anna walked in on me when I was in the bathroom. “Hey,” I said. “Check this out.” I dribbled someJean Naté on the floor, her initials. Then I torched them. I figured she’d run screaming like a tattle-tale, butinstead she sat right down on the edge of the bathtub. She reached for the bottle of Jean Naté, made someloopy design on the tiles, and told me to do it again.
Anna is the only proof I have that I was born into this family, instead of dropped off on the doorstep by someBonnie and Clyde couple that ran off into the night. On the surface, we’re polar opposites. Under the skin,though, we’re the same: people think they know what they’re getting, and they’re always wrong.
Fuck them all. I ought to have that tattooed on my forehead, for all the times I’ve thought it. Usually I am intransit, speeding in my Jeep until my lungs give out. Today, I’m driving ninety-five down 95. I weave in andout of traffic, sewing up a scar. People yell at me behind their closed windows. I give them the finger.
It would solve a thousand problems if I rolled the Jeep over an embankment. It’s not like I haven’t thoughtabout it, you know. On my license, it says I’m an organ donor, but the truth is I’d consider being an organmartyr. I’m sure I’m worth a lot more dead than alive—the sum of the parts equals more than the whole. Iwonder who might wind up walking around with my liver, my lungs, even my eyeballs. I wonder what poorasshole would get stuck with whatever it is in me that passes for a heart.
To my dismay, though, I get all the way to the exit without a scratch. I peel off the ramp and tool along AllensAvenue. There’s an underpass there where I know I’ll find Duracell Dan. He’s a homeless dude, Vietnam vet,who spends most of his time collecting batteries that people toss into the trash. What the hell he does withthem, I don’t know. He opens them up, I know that much. He says the CIA hides messages for all itsoperatives in Energizer double-As, that the FBI sticks to Evereadys.
Dan and I have a deal: I bring him a McDonald’s Value Meal a few times a week, and in return, he watchesover my stuff. I find him huddled over the astrology book that he considers his manifesto. “Dan,” I say,getting out of the car and handing him his Big Mac. “What’s up?”
He squints at me. “The moon’s in freaking Aquarius.” He stuffs a fry into his mouth. “I never should havegotten out of bed.”
If Dan has a bed, it’s news to me. “Sorry about that,” I say. “Got my stuff?”
He jerks his head to the barrels behind the concrete pylon where he keeps my things. The perchloric acidfilched from the chemistry lab at the high school is intact; in another barrel is the sawdust. I hike the stuffedpillowcase under my arm and haul it to the car. I find him waiting at the door. “Thanks.”
He leans against the car, won’t let me get inside. “They gave me a message for you.”
Even though everything that comes out of Dan’s mouth is total bullshit, my stomach rolls over. “Who did?”
He looks down the road, then back at me. “You know.” Leaning closer, he whispers, “Think twice.”
“That was the message?”
Dan nods. “Yeah. It was that, or Drink twice. I can’t be sure.”
“That advice I might actually listen to.” I shove him a little, so that I can get into the car. He is lighter thanyou’d think, like whatever was inside him was used up long ago. With that reasoning, it’s a wonder I don’tfloat off into the sky. “Later,” I tell him, and then I drive toward the warehouse I’ve been watching.
I look for places like me: big, hollow, forgotten by most everyone. This one’s in the Olneyville area. At onetime, it was used as a storage facility for an export business. Now, it’s pretty much just home to an extendedfamily of rats. I park far enough away that no one would think twice about my car. I stuff the pillowcase ofsawdust under my jacket and take off.
It turns out that I learned something from my dear old dad after all: firemen are experts at getting into placesthey shouldn’t be. It doesn’t take much to pick the lock, and then it’s just a matter of figuring out where Iwant to start. I cut a hole in the bottom of the pillowcase and let the sawdust draw three fat initials, JBF. ThenI take the acid and dribble it over the letters.
This is the first time I’ve done it in the middle of the day.
I take a pack of Merits out of my pocket and tamp them down, then stick one into my mouth. My Zippo’salmost out of lighter fluid; I need to remember to get some. When I’m finished, I get to my feet, take one lastdrag, and toss the cigarette into the sawdust. I know this one’s going to move fast, so I’m already runningwhen the wall of fire rises behind me. Like all the others, they will look for clues. But this cigarette and myinitials will have long been gone. The whole floor underneath them will melt. The walls will buckle and give.
The first engine reaches the scene just as I get back to my car and pull the binoculars out of my trunk. Bythen, the fire’s done what it wants to—escape. Glass has blown out of windows; smoke rises black, aneclipse.
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