BrigitsFlame, October - Week 1
As Ficus stares at the burnt black match and the cheap ‘Yellowstone National Park’ snowglobe half-buried in the depths of the putrid-smelling, gnat-infested trashcan, he tells himself, Gasoline. I should’ve brought some damn gasoline. He looks up at the flickering neon Kroger sign above him expectantly, shrugs, and saunters through the automatic doors with a shuffling instep that has older women shouting “Delinquent!” right off the bat. A breeze carrying the scent of diaper powder and old dogfood hits Ficus in the face when he enters the store, causing him to wince and remember all the reasons why he hated this place. With a frown, he slips his thin hand into his shorts pocket and it emerges with chapstick-the cheap kind, that smelled like Vaseline-grease-that he slathers on thin lips, smacking them out of habit.
Could you even by gasoline at a grocery store? Ficus frowns further, twisting his face to an expression unpleasant enough that the grocer clerk nearby sees it fit to come over. Hands still full of the bread she’d been organizing in the bakery, she chirps out a quick, “Sir, can I help you with anything today?”
Ficus almost ignores her, bright red vest and shiny gold nametag and all, before abruptly deciding against it. He doesn’t want to be in here any longer than necessary, and kind of savors watching her squirm in discomfort at his six foot two and surly demeanor. He wonders if she knows.
“Yeah…you got, like-something you can set on fire easily? Something real flammable?”
His lips twitch as her shoulders droop and she takes a small step away, nearly waving the bread in front of her like some ward. “Something…flammable. Like coal? Uh, those’re over by the matches and lighters, er…sir.”
“Right,” he drawls. He skims the aisles and their plastic headers before his gaze comes to rest on the cleaning supplies section. The last line of little black letters shines like a beacon in all its misspelled glory: rubing alchol. He grins. Duh. He starts off towards the toppling mops and sterile-citrus air, throwing an absent-minded, “Thanks,” over his shoulder. The grocer eyes him for a moment longer before going back to the bakery to line up more bread.
Of all the aisles, Ficus always hated the cleaning aisle the most-it smells gross, and the stale cleanliness of the scent always clings to the back of his tongue. Today, though, Ficus nearly flies over the tiles, leaving rubber marks on white in his wake, before skidding to a stop in front of very plain, Kroger-brand labeled bottles with ‘rubbing alcohol’ big, black and promising. Ficus slips out the chapstick once more, then smacks, grins, and picks up one bottle to take it to check-out.
Back outside, Ficus takes the rubbing alcohol out of the plastic bag and tosses it in the air. Whistling, he throws the bag and, with a short glance downwards, the receipt into the trash. He cracks open the seal and ignoring the curious looks he’s getting from soccer moms and whiny brats as they pass by, begins pouring the rubbing alcohol into the trash. Still whistling, he looks up as he hears the whirr of an airplane overhead-the shiny black paneling of the Kroger’s front reflects the blue afternoon sky clearly, and the little moving dots of birds and the airplane. Ficus wonders if he’s standing up there, watching the parking lot, and wonders if he’ll get away with this. The bottle is suddenly empty, and Ficus looks back down. He scoffs at himself. Then he takes the chapstick and some matches out of his pocket, smacks his lips, and sets the trashcan on fire with a quiet fwoom.
An older woman gasps and jumps behind him, plastic jerking and rustling as some of her groceries spill onto the ground. Other yelps and shouts of surprise echo off air, and it’s only after Ficus turns away, still slathering on chapstick, that someone yells, “Fire!” People run in and out of the store, collecting in front as if viewing some parade. Ficus moseys away, smirking at the column of smoke and anger writhing in the trashcan, and knows the security camera caught it all.
What Ficus doesn’t know is the grim line of his father’s mouth and dead glint in his eyes caught it all as well, from behind the shiny black panels of his success. Straightening his black vest and shiny gold name tag that reads William Johnson, Manager, he sighs and turns away. His assistant manager looks at him over her glasses, and asks if he wants her to report the kid to the police.
“No,” he grunts. The image of the snowglobe he’d bought his son when they’d gone hiking and camping in the Yellowstone National Park ten years ago, when he’d still been his kid’s hero, was fresh in his mind. Then the image of it falling heavily into the trashcan. He scowls, and wishes like back then the kid would stop smacking his damn lips.
It smells bad!
So?! Mom said it’s important to keep my lips hyyyyyyyy-drated…!
He turns back towards the window. The fire is just licking the top of the metal trashcan now, not a needy, reaching pillar as it’d been before. “Just put some water on it.”
The assistant manager nods and exits the room, leaving the older man to watch the back of his son grow smaller and smaller as he heads home and away.