TheWriteStuff
February 9th, 2014, 10:11 AM
Hope everyone enjoys this story. General comments are welcome and I'd like to hear thoughts on how to tighten up the ending. The current end doesn't feel quite right. Enjoy!
Trust Me, I'm an Idiot
Most of my life I’ve been considered smart. Growing up I breezed through school, made it into a prestigious university, and am now working in the strategy department of a large corporation. My hobbies include crossword puzzles, reading, and learning. You’re probably imagining right now what I look like and you’re correct in thinking I wear glasses. Yes, I’m the poster child of overachieving former honors students from across America. Understand though that this is all a massive shield for my true self. I am, without a doubt, a complete, and utter, idiot.
A bit harsh you might say, so let me tell you a story. This is a true story, it happened, well, just yesterday. Let’s start a little earlier than that though. For context, we need to go back to January 1st, New Years.
I had the day off work and so did a few of my friends, so we met up for lunch. What we ate, who they are, and where we were doesn’t really matter for this story, but since I’m sure you’re curious anyways: burritos, Neha and Gregory (friends from school), Manuel’s Tacqueria in Palo Alto, CA. The important part is our discussion of New Year’s resolutions. I’m typically against them and haven’t set any for myself in years. Why give up something I enjoy doing just so I can feel guilty once I inevitably pick it up again? But the both of them were convinced of the value of making a resolution, whether it is kept or not, saying that it forces you to address parts of your person that you’d like to change and bring those out into the open. They asked me what I was dissatisfied with in my life. The truth is not much. I’m in relatively good shape, eat well, and enjoy work, but, I told them, I could possibly be less tight with my money and get some fun things once in a while. This beget my New Year’s resolution: to set aside $50 every month, money which could only be spent on frivolous items or activities.
At work the next day I set up an automatic deposit to a new checking account to fulfill my resolution. A month later and the account had $50 in it. I thought about what I wanted to spend it on, what had I wanted for a long time but never had the justification to buy? I decided on a Zippo lighter.
No, I don’t smoke. But I’ve wanted one of these lighters ever since I went to camp the summer before freshman year of high school. One of my friends, Cole, had a Zippo and was able to do tricks with it like The Thumb Squeeze and Twilight Zone (he also used to light people’s socks on fire, which eventually got the lighter taken away by a counselor, but I digress). It made him the envy of the camp.
That was ten years ago and it was exactly the kind of purchase perfect for my “pay yourself first” fund. I ordered it and lighter fluid online.
Two days later I came home to my studio apartment after a fairly long day of work and, sitting at the base of my door, was a small brown box. I grabbed the box, unlocked the door, and walked into the main room, tossing down keys, laptop bag, and jacket on my way to my bed, the unfortunate centerpiece of the room.
Resting against the headboard I pulled off my shoes and tossed them aside and then ripped at the tape on the box. Inside was a larger than expected tin can of lighter fluid and a small black box bearing the name “Zippo” on the outside. I opened the box and there it was, a gleaming brass objet d’art. I picked it up, immediately smearing greasy fingerprints over the previously mirrored finish. It was a solid piece; the heft of it was clearly felt in my hand. This was the armor version of the classic Zippo, with slightly more robust casing walls and sturdy hinge and it felt like the embodiment of luxury. Sitting in the shipping box was the invoice: $16.45. Well worth the price. I was glad my friends had talked me into my rewarding resolution.
Earlier that week I had watched a video on how to fill the lighter and began the process by pulling out the insert and placing it upside down in the case. There is a thick piece of felt on the bottom of the insert with a small hole in it. The idea is that you use a needle, pen, or similar object to lift up the felt flap which in turn exposes the cotton to be soaked with lighter fluid. I used the pen I keep in my pocket to lift the flap and then held the felt flap open with one hand while reaching for the lighter fluid tin with the other. The nozzle on the top of the tin was recessed within a plastic groove and my fingernails weren’t long enough to pull it out, so what did I do? Well I used my teeth, of course. The little nozzle popped out and as it did, the tin slipped from my hand and fell, open, onto my bed. I grabbed it immediately and it didn’t appear that any of the flammable liquid had spilled, so I proceeded with squirting five second bursts of fluid into the lighter’s reservoir.
The process was much messier than I had imagined. There was extra fluid on my hands and on the outside of the lighter. It felt odd on my hands, moist, yet drying at the same time. I closed the tin and pushed the felt flap back into place. My next move was to put the insert back into the case and then give it a test light.
With a forceful flick of my thumb I gave the flint wheel a mighty spin and watched the spark turn into flame, a flame which, as I watched with ever more terrified eyes, began on the wick, then spread to the case, and then to my hand.
Calm under pressure as always, I dropped the lighter while simultaneously flinging my arm backwards and emitting the most masculine of shrieks. I jumped up, blowing on my thumb like it had been replaced with one of those inane trick candles. No effect.
I ran to the sink (this is a studio apartment, so it was only a few steps away) and threw open the tap, dousing my finger in the cooling stream. Disaster averted.
Or at least that was the thought until the fire alarm went off. I pivoted and saw the bed was covered in flames. I grabbed a half full glass of water next to the sink and threw its contents towards the bed. It had the exact effect you might have guessed, namely none.
Next, I reached for two kitchen towels, and ran (again, just a few steps) to the bed, swinging both arms in haymakers, like Alex and his droogs, trying to beat the fire out of existence.
A loud knocking came from the door. I looked at the towels in my hands, both on fire, and threw them onto the bed and ran to the door (still only a few steps). I swung the door open. It was Ayumi, the old Japanese woman who lived next door. She was holding a large red fire extinguisher, exactly what I needed. I reached for it but she swatted my hand away and strode towards the fire, releasing the white foam towards the flames. Sweat billowed from her brow as she battled the blaze. It was hot, I wish I hadn’t thrown that glass of water away. Eventually, the bed was extinguished.
Ayumi glared at me as she walked out. I thanked her, of course, but she didn’t seem to care. The apartment was in ruins. The bed was black, and the ceiling was ashy gray. That extra $50 each month would have to go towards replacing most of my apartment and cleaning the smoke damage, so it appeared the resolution was over after just one month. But this was probably a good thing. Next month I was planning on getting a bb gun and if month one had any takeaways it is that I probably would have shot my eye out.
Trust Me, I'm an Idiot
Most of my life I’ve been considered smart. Growing up I breezed through school, made it into a prestigious university, and am now working in the strategy department of a large corporation. My hobbies include crossword puzzles, reading, and learning. You’re probably imagining right now what I look like and you’re correct in thinking I wear glasses. Yes, I’m the poster child of overachieving former honors students from across America. Understand though that this is all a massive shield for my true self. I am, without a doubt, a complete, and utter, idiot.
A bit harsh you might say, so let me tell you a story. This is a true story, it happened, well, just yesterday. Let’s start a little earlier than that though. For context, we need to go back to January 1st, New Years.
I had the day off work and so did a few of my friends, so we met up for lunch. What we ate, who they are, and where we were doesn’t really matter for this story, but since I’m sure you’re curious anyways: burritos, Neha and Gregory (friends from school), Manuel’s Tacqueria in Palo Alto, CA. The important part is our discussion of New Year’s resolutions. I’m typically against them and haven’t set any for myself in years. Why give up something I enjoy doing just so I can feel guilty once I inevitably pick it up again? But the both of them were convinced of the value of making a resolution, whether it is kept or not, saying that it forces you to address parts of your person that you’d like to change and bring those out into the open. They asked me what I was dissatisfied with in my life. The truth is not much. I’m in relatively good shape, eat well, and enjoy work, but, I told them, I could possibly be less tight with my money and get some fun things once in a while. This beget my New Year’s resolution: to set aside $50 every month, money which could only be spent on frivolous items or activities.
At work the next day I set up an automatic deposit to a new checking account to fulfill my resolution. A month later and the account had $50 in it. I thought about what I wanted to spend it on, what had I wanted for a long time but never had the justification to buy? I decided on a Zippo lighter.
No, I don’t smoke. But I’ve wanted one of these lighters ever since I went to camp the summer before freshman year of high school. One of my friends, Cole, had a Zippo and was able to do tricks with it like The Thumb Squeeze and Twilight Zone (he also used to light people’s socks on fire, which eventually got the lighter taken away by a counselor, but I digress). It made him the envy of the camp.
That was ten years ago and it was exactly the kind of purchase perfect for my “pay yourself first” fund. I ordered it and lighter fluid online.
Two days later I came home to my studio apartment after a fairly long day of work and, sitting at the base of my door, was a small brown box. I grabbed the box, unlocked the door, and walked into the main room, tossing down keys, laptop bag, and jacket on my way to my bed, the unfortunate centerpiece of the room.
Resting against the headboard I pulled off my shoes and tossed them aside and then ripped at the tape on the box. Inside was a larger than expected tin can of lighter fluid and a small black box bearing the name “Zippo” on the outside. I opened the box and there it was, a gleaming brass objet d’art. I picked it up, immediately smearing greasy fingerprints over the previously mirrored finish. It was a solid piece; the heft of it was clearly felt in my hand. This was the armor version of the classic Zippo, with slightly more robust casing walls and sturdy hinge and it felt like the embodiment of luxury. Sitting in the shipping box was the invoice: $16.45. Well worth the price. I was glad my friends had talked me into my rewarding resolution.
Earlier that week I had watched a video on how to fill the lighter and began the process by pulling out the insert and placing it upside down in the case. There is a thick piece of felt on the bottom of the insert with a small hole in it. The idea is that you use a needle, pen, or similar object to lift up the felt flap which in turn exposes the cotton to be soaked with lighter fluid. I used the pen I keep in my pocket to lift the flap and then held the felt flap open with one hand while reaching for the lighter fluid tin with the other. The nozzle on the top of the tin was recessed within a plastic groove and my fingernails weren’t long enough to pull it out, so what did I do? Well I used my teeth, of course. The little nozzle popped out and as it did, the tin slipped from my hand and fell, open, onto my bed. I grabbed it immediately and it didn’t appear that any of the flammable liquid had spilled, so I proceeded with squirting five second bursts of fluid into the lighter’s reservoir.
The process was much messier than I had imagined. There was extra fluid on my hands and on the outside of the lighter. It felt odd on my hands, moist, yet drying at the same time. I closed the tin and pushed the felt flap back into place. My next move was to put the insert back into the case and then give it a test light.
With a forceful flick of my thumb I gave the flint wheel a mighty spin and watched the spark turn into flame, a flame which, as I watched with ever more terrified eyes, began on the wick, then spread to the case, and then to my hand.
Calm under pressure as always, I dropped the lighter while simultaneously flinging my arm backwards and emitting the most masculine of shrieks. I jumped up, blowing on my thumb like it had been replaced with one of those inane trick candles. No effect.
I ran to the sink (this is a studio apartment, so it was only a few steps away) and threw open the tap, dousing my finger in the cooling stream. Disaster averted.
Or at least that was the thought until the fire alarm went off. I pivoted and saw the bed was covered in flames. I grabbed a half full glass of water next to the sink and threw its contents towards the bed. It had the exact effect you might have guessed, namely none.
Next, I reached for two kitchen towels, and ran (again, just a few steps) to the bed, swinging both arms in haymakers, like Alex and his droogs, trying to beat the fire out of existence.
A loud knocking came from the door. I looked at the towels in my hands, both on fire, and threw them onto the bed and ran to the door (still only a few steps). I swung the door open. It was Ayumi, the old Japanese woman who lived next door. She was holding a large red fire extinguisher, exactly what I needed. I reached for it but she swatted my hand away and strode towards the fire, releasing the white foam towards the flames. Sweat billowed from her brow as she battled the blaze. It was hot, I wish I hadn’t thrown that glass of water away. Eventually, the bed was extinguished.
Ayumi glared at me as she walked out. I thanked her, of course, but she didn’t seem to care. The apartment was in ruins. The bed was black, and the ceiling was ashy gray. That extra $50 each month would have to go towards replacing most of my apartment and cleaning the smoke damage, so it appeared the resolution was over after just one month. But this was probably a good thing. Next month I was planning on getting a bb gun and if month one had any takeaways it is that I probably would have shot my eye out.