A Cautionary Christmas Tale
My name is Stephen, and it’s been six months since I’ve intentionally combusted.
I bought a 2019 “M” last summer. My favorite spoon has been at room temperature ever since.
Pilots will tell you, a plane doesn’t crash when one thing goes wrong, it takes a combination of events.
So it was last night, how I crashed my metaphoric plane.
I was looking for an subtle attitude correction, so I might be more present and attentive for the evening.
My wife was talking to me about Christmas scheduling as I consulted the alcohol lamp at my herbal alter.
And I guess I missed the click as it seemed to be taking forever.
Then I saw a whisp, just a small tendril of smoke.
Overhanging herbal overflow, I thought.
But I stopped with the flame and chambered the M in an embattled Roor scientific piece that has been repaired twice.
I remember thinking my glasses must need cleaning as the Roor had become a zero visibility snow globe.
Ropey, I thought, smiling at my good fortune.
Then I released the carb.
Not the bright lemon vapor I had anticipated, but an Oliver Twist nightmare of turbulent acridity that coated my tongue like a pack of smouldered cotton balls.
A small cloud of Diesel-black jakebrake smoke escaped with an involuntary cough I tried to suppress.
“Combustion!”
I coughed, running out the front door.
“What?”
I heard my wife ask as I ran barefoot into the snow to exhail the smoldered herb and clear my M of the cremation ash.
I removed the hot cap.
The chamber was as empty as Christ’s tomb.
No herb in the chamber, burned or otherwise.
Some time passed before the cap clicked in my hand.
Bent over coughing, standing barefoot in snow, I felt that deep psychological rumble of liftoff.
A flashback to SCUBA training told me panic wouldn’t help here.
I had a finite amount of time to prepare.
The M hadn’t been cleaned for while and I pictured the stalagmites and stalactites of reclaim i had just firebombed.
Now they wanted me go get a bag of chips and a big glass of ice and a bottle of concentrated lime juice, a sleeping bag and a Winter hat.
I had all this under one arm as I used my other arm to three-legged-dog it up the stairs, trying to think soothing thoughts about triangular stability, as a very de-evolved stagger had overcome me as I gathered the items.
Scurvy suddenly seemed a concern and so did paralysis, so I drank the lime juice, straight, over ice, put on my knitted hat and crawled in my sleeping bag.
Paralysis had set in by the time I heard Frosty the Snowman playing downstairs.
And I started humming along in the dark, trying to keep touch with reality by focusing on the song.
But the words of the song got carried away like a mouse by an owl, leaving me with-
There must have been some reclaim in the Dynavap he scorched
For when he missed that vital click he ran out on the porch...
Hopefully my efforts at attentive presence will go smoother when Valentines roll around.