Lets Get Physical

“What the fuck?”

I can’t remember which one of us said it. I’d finished a quarter handle of whiskey in the course of the evening, and I know that if I didn’t say it, I thought it. I’d been sitting in my patio, minding my business and enjoying the dark Davis night.

We stared at each other for a moment. I threw another Washington Mutual statement into the tiny, foot tall barbeque and finished the last gulp of bourbon. It wasn’t hard to pretend to be nonchalant: my every muscle was relaxed to sagging, and when I glared droopily, my head lolled sideways.

“I don’t remember inviting you in, asshole,” I said, controlling my tongue as well as one might expect. I wasn’t worried about hiding the fact that I was drunk. It was my home, after all, and I knew I could kick his ass into a corner without resorting to dirty tricks.

“I don’t know what you’re doing here,” I slobbered slightly, “but I know what you’re not doing, which is fucking off.” I put my best I’m-considering-ripping-your-dick-off-and-shoving-it-up-your-nose face and stood. Slowly. “Why don’t you see to that?”

He looked me up and down. I was shirtless, with a slight post-workout gleam and swell clinging to my melting muscles. He took in the rest of the scene: A pile of unopened envelopes, crumpled receipts, an uncapped handle of Maker’s Mark, a generic brand bottle of lighter fluid, a box of matches, and a small mop bucket.

“That’s quite a blaze you have going there.”

It was actually causing me physical pain. I later discovered singed leg hairs, but at the moment, I was focused on the intruder.

“I’m reconciling my checkbook,” I growled. “New fiscal year and all.”

My boss calls it “physical year” and I have to bite til I bleed to keep from correcting him.

I dropped a stack of old credit card bills, overdraft notices, and preapproved credit card applications onto the mound of smoldering ashes.

“Why don’t you leave, before I start to feel threatened and defend myself?” I didn’t break eye contact ask I scooped up the lighter fluid, popped the top, and sprayed until a fireball burped up from the stack of financial irresponsibility.

“Because you’re making a lot of smoke, and the flame on your barbeque is taller than you are, and because I’m a fucking firefighter.”

“Did you just threaten to kick my ass?”

“Put the fire out.”

I think my response surprised him a little bit, not just by the direction I was taking the conversation, but by the abrupt shift in volume.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING? NO! OH GOD! YOU’RE HURTING ME! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?”

I stepped around the inferno, balling my fists and cracking my neck menacingly. Neighbors would have heard me. I smiled.

“Fuck off before I start defending myself. This shit needs to burn. Fucking credit cards. Zero percent APR, preapproved, no interest for six months! Free checking! Cash back with ever purchase, and you’ll be entered to win a thousand dollars every time you swipe. Not that I fell for that shit. I just like nice things. And now I’m an indentured servant for a company that doesn’t sell a damned thing. Credit card companies don’t sell service. They buy lives. Fuck off. I’m emancipating myself.”

“You’re going to burn your house down, and then you’ll go to jail. That’s not emancipation.”

“I know my fire safety. I have my fireman fuckin ‘chit. I have a bucket of water. I have a shovel and a mess of dirt. I have a lid for the barbeque. Nothings going to happen.”

“You’re drunk off your ass. That’s not safe.”

I spat at the ground in front of him and grabbed the bucket of water. I glared at him as I filled the small metal pit to the brim with water, the ashes of my failure swirling and spitting steam.

“I’m going to say this once, and I hope you don’t listen to me, because I really want to hurt you. You have exactly no time left here in my home. Turn around and leave right now.”