At some point it became popular in my apartment to set each other on fire.
Everyone walked about in singed clothes, pink, sore skin peeking out from the holes. We did this in public or private, sober or tore up. Bouncers that knew us wouldn’t let us in with lighters. In the apartment no one sat with their backs exposed.
It started innocent enough with a cooking accident, but within a day we were flicking matches. Inside of a week flaming laces cost Scheller his running shoes. It might not have been so bad except his feet were still in them. It was thrilling and invigorating, setting things on fire. We were kids with a new toy and we had to show the world.
Oh, the first time this happened outside of the home was such the sweet power trip.
Nick was hitting on some girl when Jackson asked to borrow my lighter. Partygoers watched with interest and then horror as Jackson snuck across the room like a ninja and held a flame to Nick’s shirttail. Conversation collapsed into a stunned silence and the music pumped on as flames crawled up towards Nick’s back, heedless of awe.
“You’re…you’re on fire!” Nick’s investment managed to choke out.
Nick glanced over his shoulder and saw the smoke.
“Oh no, it’s cool,” he said, waving her off. “So what’s your major again?”
The host of the party turned hero and leapt over the couch. He took Nick down to the floor and smothered him while Jackson and I clapped and giggled like schoolgirls.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he yelled.
Five minutes later we lit Nick on fire again.
“You fucker!” Nick yelled and tackled Jackson, not bothering to put himself out. As they grappled on the floor laughing, the flames got bigger.
“Stop, drop, and roll, bitch! Stop, drop, and roll!” I yelled and jumped in place excitedly.
“Someone do something!” Nick’s girl screamed.
Everyone looked around helplessly.
“I got it!” I yelled and ran into the kitchen to rummage like a crazed raccoon. I sprinted back into the crowd. Nick and Jackson were lying on their backs on the floor grinning, extinguished. The party didn’t look like it could take much more stress.
I pulled out the bottle of lighter fluid from the kitchen and started hosing my roommates down with it and everything just exploded. Someone slapped me in the face and Jackson kicked their legs out from under them. Nick grabbed the lighter fluid and was holding a flame in front of it, threatening to ignite anyone that came near us.
“Get out!” the host screamed, his voice cracking. “Get the fuck out!”
And laughing like maniacs we made our way to the door.
We were insolated by a sense of the absurd. Safe from panic with a comfortable understanding of the stupidity of our actions. And we liked the attention.
Rumors spread and friends disowned us and we were invited to party with people we’d never met. People liked to play with fire it seems, or at least they liked watching those that attempt it. Guys watched us warily while girls flirted with fear and respect and all the time we worked at one-upping one another.
Nick realized that with a mouth full of grain alcohol he could breathe fire.
Scheller was the first to set fire to a stranger.
And as we took these tentative steps towards arson, the flames kept getting bigger and the first-degree burns we found so amusing started to blacken and bubble.
When they burnt off my hair things came to a head. I was asleep when I felt the heat and smelled the nastiness. They’d got me so bad I had to bic my head and go around like a cue ball all week. My pillow was ruined and I had to air out my room for days to get rid of the smell. My roommates snickered and laughed and I snickered too while I planned my revenge.
In the halls of my apartment I sensed a pecking order. And I’d be damned if I was last in line. Things were escalating. It had that feeling like insomnia, when you lay down and close your eyes and they have heat and grit like coals, where things that seemed unreasonable in the light of day suddenly start to make sense. I think it’s called madness and I was becoming comfortable with the newfound fury.
I conspired with my roommate Scheller, and together we journeyed to the Illinois line. We drove like maniacs, more concerned with motion than direction, going the wrong way but going there fast. 80 miles per hour for 8 hours on what should have been a short afternoon drive. We returned to find our roommates relaxing, backs to walls, watching a movie. Scheller came from the north and I came from the south, boxing them in. Smoke bombs created confusion while the ring of Roman Candles filled the air. In the background the revolving words of a pop song “This fire is out of control / We’re gonna burn this city / burn this city / I’m out of control and I burn…” The couch caught fire and then the curtains. The porn magazines strewn across the floor. It was everywhere; the scene had exploded and suddenly we found ourselves fighting our own creation.
Smoke choked us and dimmed the lights while the fire dressed everything in red. Our faces were illuminated by the flames, carved up smiles like jester’s masks. We danced like little devils and surely but for the pleasure it felt like hell.
When the flames were gone and the smoke cleared we all felt quite refreshed. We looked around like friends and laughed at our foolishness.
No one had had the foresight to buy a fire extinguisher. The couch was destroyed along with most of the blankets and towels in the apartment. We had no smoke alarms and the fire department was never called so we just threw everything out the big bay window down into the street. We stopped setting things on fire. We hadn´t learned our lesson or repented, we were just done with it. The flames had been superficial anyway, the smoldering was inside and we could not put it out. So quietly and covered it grew as we breathed, promising to come back twice as strong. And in this moment of clarity, almost sexual in nature, things seemed calm, but the normalcy was burning down like a fuse.
Everyone walked about in singed clothes, pink, sore skin peeking out from the holes. We did this in public or private, sober or tore up. Bouncers that knew us wouldn’t let us in with lighters. In the apartment no one sat with their backs exposed.
It started innocent enough with a cooking accident, but within a day we were flicking matches. Inside of a week flaming laces cost Scheller his running shoes. It might not have been so bad except his feet were still in them. It was thrilling and invigorating, setting things on fire. We were kids with a new toy and we had to show the world.
Oh, the first time this happened outside of the home was such the sweet power trip.
Nick was hitting on some girl when Jackson asked to borrow my lighter. Partygoers watched with interest and then horror as Jackson snuck across the room like a ninja and held a flame to Nick’s shirttail. Conversation collapsed into a stunned silence and the music pumped on as flames crawled up towards Nick’s back, heedless of awe.
“You’re…you’re on fire!” Nick’s investment managed to choke out.
Nick glanced over his shoulder and saw the smoke.
“Oh no, it’s cool,” he said, waving her off. “So what’s your major again?”
The host of the party turned hero and leapt over the couch. He took Nick down to the floor and smothered him while Jackson and I clapped and giggled like schoolgirls.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he yelled.
Five minutes later we lit Nick on fire again.
“You fucker!” Nick yelled and tackled Jackson, not bothering to put himself out. As they grappled on the floor laughing, the flames got bigger.
“Stop, drop, and roll, bitch! Stop, drop, and roll!” I yelled and jumped in place excitedly.
“Someone do something!” Nick’s girl screamed.
Everyone looked around helplessly.
“I got it!” I yelled and ran into the kitchen to rummage like a crazed raccoon. I sprinted back into the crowd. Nick and Jackson were lying on their backs on the floor grinning, extinguished. The party didn’t look like it could take much more stress.
I pulled out the bottle of lighter fluid from the kitchen and started hosing my roommates down with it and everything just exploded. Someone slapped me in the face and Jackson kicked their legs out from under them. Nick grabbed the lighter fluid and was holding a flame in front of it, threatening to ignite anyone that came near us.
“Get out!” the host screamed, his voice cracking. “Get the fuck out!”
And laughing like maniacs we made our way to the door.
We were insolated by a sense of the absurd. Safe from panic with a comfortable understanding of the stupidity of our actions. And we liked the attention.
Rumors spread and friends disowned us and we were invited to party with people we’d never met. People liked to play with fire it seems, or at least they liked watching those that attempt it. Guys watched us warily while girls flirted with fear and respect and all the time we worked at one-upping one another.
Nick realized that with a mouth full of grain alcohol he could breathe fire.
Scheller was the first to set fire to a stranger.
And as we took these tentative steps towards arson, the flames kept getting bigger and the first-degree burns we found so amusing started to blacken and bubble.
When they burnt off my hair things came to a head. I was asleep when I felt the heat and smelled the nastiness. They’d got me so bad I had to bic my head and go around like a cue ball all week. My pillow was ruined and I had to air out my room for days to get rid of the smell. My roommates snickered and laughed and I snickered too while I planned my revenge.
In the halls of my apartment I sensed a pecking order. And I’d be damned if I was last in line. Things were escalating. It had that feeling like insomnia, when you lay down and close your eyes and they have heat and grit like coals, where things that seemed unreasonable in the light of day suddenly start to make sense. I think it’s called madness and I was becoming comfortable with the newfound fury.
I conspired with my roommate Scheller, and together we journeyed to the Illinois line. We drove like maniacs, more concerned with motion than direction, going the wrong way but going there fast. 80 miles per hour for 8 hours on what should have been a short afternoon drive. We returned to find our roommates relaxing, backs to walls, watching a movie. Scheller came from the north and I came from the south, boxing them in. Smoke bombs created confusion while the ring of Roman Candles filled the air. In the background the revolving words of a pop song “This fire is out of control / We’re gonna burn this city / burn this city / I’m out of control and I burn…” The couch caught fire and then the curtains. The porn magazines strewn across the floor. It was everywhere; the scene had exploded and suddenly we found ourselves fighting our own creation.
Smoke choked us and dimmed the lights while the fire dressed everything in red. Our faces were illuminated by the flames, carved up smiles like jester’s masks. We danced like little devils and surely but for the pleasure it felt like hell.
When the flames were gone and the smoke cleared we all felt quite refreshed. We looked around like friends and laughed at our foolishness.
No one had had the foresight to buy a fire extinguisher. The couch was destroyed along with most of the blankets and towels in the apartment. We had no smoke alarms and the fire department was never called so we just threw everything out the big bay window down into the street. We stopped setting things on fire. We hadn´t learned our lesson or repented, we were just done with it. The flames had been superficial anyway, the smoldering was inside and we could not put it out. So quietly and covered it grew as we breathed, promising to come back twice as strong. And in this moment of clarity, almost sexual in nature, things seemed calm, but the normalcy was burning down like a fuse.
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