Handling a Stick On Fire

Essays

Aug 22

There are so many things I want to put in a drawer and save for later, and when I say that, I really mean never see again, but I can’t throw them out. Every piece of mail in my mailbox is a personal affront and a calamitous annoyance. Calling to set up an appointment in this technological age is akin to hiring an Uber courier to drive a box of your ex’s stuff back to them. Who knows if it will get there, but who cares?

I leave wondrous tidings in my email inbox because it piles up like a triple decker sandwich at a 2:11 AM diner in Patchogue. The lettuce is going one way, crisp bacon, sharp toast ends, and globs of mayo dripping off wilted tomatoes. The number keeps creeping up all day, making it more likely I'll need one of those fire blankets I’ve seen on the Internet to put it out. Water doesn’t get the job done.

Any request for me to do anything that is not currently on my schedule is a pan smashing me in the face. A cast iron skillet of obligation flying my way to do something fun or nice or interesting, but they don’t know how little I want to do in my free time. Binge-watching Industry is so much easier than providing a courteous no thank you.

There was so much reading assigned in law school that I thought it was actually a joke. How could every class assign 200 pages and expect us to get it done? There’s a reason I was second-to-last in my class. There was also a reason I went to work for the government and did 250 jury trials in seven years. Reading was an obligation. Work was a motivation.

I’m scared of fire. My son once used the fire pit at an Airbnb in Saugerties, and it lit up real quick. I think we were closer to starting a forest fire than we thought. We crammed homemade s’mores down our pie holes, though. We watched movies on a projector we bought for the trip because the reviews said there were no TVs. We saw outdoor Shakespeare in Woodstock. A forest fire would have killed the vibe.

Do you remember the game hot potato when you were younger? Sometimes you would imagine it actually feeling hot in your hands. That’s most of life’s obligations to me. Like that pepperoni Hot Pockets you took out of the microwave when you were thirteen and couldn’t wait to eat. That burn lasts for weeks.

I like leaving text messages on read. I guess it’s a power move. I just don’t want to be forced to respond, and once I read the message, I am caught in that obligatory arena with no gloves and Jon Jones standing across from me, knowing that I mistakenly insulted his mother. I don’t want to spend my life in the octagon.

I had so much fun playing sports board games by myself as a kid. I wasn’t lonely. I was in my own world. The fire burned all around me, but I was safe. Some things burned; others were charred. When I finally walked outside, the biggest decision I had to make was whether to touch the stick on fire that was standing right in front of me.