Trash Fire

Convincing myself it was a courtesy, I scraped the head of the match against the coarse side of the box, my eyes widening with pyro-maniacal joy as it sparked to life; the initial, hissing flare ultimately settling into a more subdued and silent flame.

---

We had guests -- long-time family friends, currently seated on the back patio, chatting with my mother.  The concrete patio, covered in the flaking green paint applied by a previous homeowner, spread out to the right from the back door in the kitchen, nestling into the corner of the L-shaped home, a large sliding glass door on the adjacent wall.  Azalea bushes of varying size and shape isolated the patio from the otherwise sizeable backyard that lay beyond. Immediately to the left of the backdoor was a slight drop-off to ground level -- only a few inches lower, really, but a decent spot for laying pavers beneath the outdoor faucet and connected hose.  This side of the patio, near the drop-off, was typically reserved for the grill and -- albeit less frequently -- the homemade ice cream machine.  I do not recall which was in use on this day, but I like to think it was the latter, because I really, really like homemade ice cream.

Our house had two bathrooms -- the master, and the not-master, so-to-speak.  I hesitate to call the latter the guest bathroom, as its primary service was to us kids. Guests were, by comparison, more rare, auxiliary users. To call it the kids' bathroom sells it short, though, because its central location made it the de facto guest bathroom, which of course dictated its markedly-regular cleaning. 

At any rate, here I stood in said bathroom, watching the tiny flame wobble towards my fingertips, slowly devouring the fibrous fuel along the way. Why I'd even lit the match doesn't make sense without the context of what sort of bathroom visit this had been, but I suspect you are by now filling in said contextual blank, and likewise deducing why I considered the match-striking to be a courteous gesture.  And while courtesy may very well have been a consideration here, the simple truth is that I saw an opportunity to strike a match. As a boy teetering on the early edge of his teenage years, I was predictably obsessed with striking matches. 

I heard my dad enter the hallway from the master bedroom, headed towards the kitchen just beyond the now-open bathroom door.  Facing the mirror, I made eye contact with myself above the flame's reflection.

---

A few years ago, at a cabin in central Texas, I stepped out into the night air to retrieve something from my car.  With the cabin's burned-out porch light behind me and a moonless sky above, I wandered into pitch black darkness as my eyes struggled to adjust.  I carried a pair of flashlights, but the biblically-proportioned swarm of moths led me to switch both devices off. 

Returning from the car, I heard a series of cracks and shuffles to my right.  Turning to face what I was certain would be a chupacabra, or perhaps Santa Anna himself, I raised a now-engaged flashlight.  I couldn't make out what I saw, but its eyes were far too low to the ground to be either of the aforementioned terrors.  Perhaps a raccoon or possum, I thought, but probably an armadillo. 

Now, I understand an armadillo in this situation is likely no reason for concern.  But at the time, it only occurred to me that I wasn't exactly up-to-date with my armadillo facts.  Can they be aggressive?  Do they have rabies?  Are they inspired to action by Monty Python's killer rabbit?  Better safe than sorry, I raced up the front steps and into the cabin, nearly clobbering my girlfriend as she watched me through the window on the front door.  It was silly, and I was laughed at, but when given the choice between being frozen in uncertainty or running away in uncertainty, I'll take the latter every time.

---

Back in the lit-match timeline, with Dad steadily approaching, I had only a moment to consider my next move.  Similar to being uncertain of armadillo temperament or armory, I was not certain how Dad would feel about my handling of a stick-bound fireball. As I was only on the cusp of my teenage years -- maybe even a few months into them -- I was unfamiliar with being of an age that my parents may consider competent enough for handling fire.  In the years prior, I knew better than to be caught toying with fire, no matter the flame's origin or size.  And up to this point, "the years prior," a.k.a. my childhood, had dominated the length, width, and breadth of my overall life experience.  I decided -- just as I would over 15 years later in the face of a solitary armadillo -- to opt for an abundance of caution.

With a flick of the wrist, I attempted to put out the match via a brief gust of wind.  Blinded by panic and unaware of my failure to fully extinguish the flame, I slung the match into the small, tissue-filled trashcan beside the vanity.  I believe it a tiny miracle that the sudden, gasp-induced change in air pressure did not rupture my eardrums.

As Dad stepped past the bathroom, there was to his left a growing blaze spewing forth from the narrow, foot-and-a-half tall trash can -- and his wide-eyed son frozen in bemused terror.  I distinctly remember trying to explain myself, but it happened so fast, I wasn't sure where to start.  Instead, I just did that thing where you put your hands out to the side, give a half-assed shrug and wordlessly open your mouth in befuddlement.  Rather than a clear and concise backstory or proposed solution, all Dad was getting out of my face was "Welp, here we are Dad -- the trash can is on fire and now we're in this mess together.  But I gotta' tell ya', man, I'm fresh out of ideas, here."

Otherwise having a lovely afternoon, Dad cannot be blamed for being caught off guard by his son's apparent attempt at indoor garbage incineration.  It's not everyday that you find a towel-roasting bonfire in the smallest room in your house.  I can't decide if Dad was ever a true wordsmith when it came to expressing anger, pain or surprise, but he certainly possessed an at-the-ready cache of "dammits," "sonofa's," and "God Bless America's" (the phrase, not the entire patriotic hymn).  But so jarring was the juxtaposition of weekend relaxation to unforeseen inferno, he instead turned into a very tall, very confused, and partially Arabic-speaking Daffy Duck. 

"Whadthe... habbidaba... I'dte...!"  

Having exhausted the present uselessness of speaking in tongues, he quite literally sprang into action.  Lunging left-foot-first into the tiny bathroom, he shouldered past me, go-go-gadgeting his left arm towards the rim of the flame-throwing trash can.  

At roughly six feet and three inches tall, my father holds the undisputed world record for longest stride-to-height ratio.  How he travelled 30 feet in only two steps is beyond imagination, but aside from a panicked stutter step at the backdoor, I swear that's exactly what he did.  You've got to understand, this man's strides are the stuff of legend.  It's like watching a giraffe clear chest-high hurdles at full sprint, but without technically jumping at all.  If you are within a 15-yard radius of Daddy Longlegs here, I promise you, you are within striking distance, bud.  The most impressive thing about this particular instance is that he did it from a largely stationary position in the middle of the hallway.  And also that he did it with the equivalent of about six Olympic torches in his left hand.  

Bounding out of the backdoor, he slid the fire-spewing trashcan onto the concrete patio with remarkable grace, balance, and precision -- the top-heavy can miraculously staying upright through the slide.  With Jason Bourne-like speed and coordination, he turned on the exterior faucet and drowned the blaze with the business end of the attached hose.  Mom and our two guests on the patio barely had time to change the casual expressions on their faces.  Connecting the dots from the trash can, to the hose, to my father, and then to me, the suddenness of the fire's appearance and expulsion left them wondering less about an explanation, and more about whether or not they'd just seen what they thought they saw.  Having neutralized the threat, Dad looked over his left shoulder, slowly turning to me for an answer.  

"Well... I had to go to the bathroom."