How To Set Yourself On Fire

Permanent destruction really gets the crooked pistons in my head wobbling. As a kid, I'd watch bonfires, convinced that I could control the size of the flames, not only that, but I could also determine where the fire would spread. In my underdeveloped four-year-old head, I was the chosen Flame Wizard put here to punish... everyone. There I would sit, possessed by the fire demons while watching the dancing light in front of me, sway to and fro the way that it does.

You've seen the news.

As time went on, my infatuation with fire morphed into borderline arson. I say borderline because I didn't burn things that couldn't be easily replaced: newspapers, old toys, various types of wood, the occasional yard ornament. I kept it simple. And scorch marks give your yard character despite what the landlord says about property values or was it damage? I don't know, but the firemen were always really cool about it.

The first time the fire department was called to my house, I was stoked...literally. I still have scars on my hands and shins from the flames that licked around my legs after this particularly heated adventure.

Two days prior I'd gone to school, took my seat at the back of the ninth grade science classroom and was preparing to take a much-needed nap when the Prom King sat beside me. (We'll just call him Prom King throughout this story as I'm sure he wants nothing to do with the stupidity I'm about to unleash)

Now, when a gorgeous popular guy can ignore the fact that you are the human equivalent to a bag of cottage cheese long enough to tell you about literally anything, you listen, and you listen good. The thing you need to know about this Prom King is he was nothing like any popular guy you have ever heard about. Yeah, dude was a total chick magnet with his perfect Disney movie features, and affinity for music...but the guy was an absolute train wreck. Prom King proceeded to tell me in great detail what happens when you pour gasoline into a plastic drinking glass and toss a match into it, and how he learned this fascinating piece of information. Apparently, the thought never occurred to him that he shouldn't do it on an inclined driveway.

“I thought it was just gonna, like, shoot straight into the air...but I was wrong,” he whispered. The doe-eyed expression he wore only amplified the hilarity. “I had to chase fire all the way down my driveway with the hose. It didn't even have one of those handles,” he said. “You know the ones that spray the water farther? I had to jam my fingers in the nozzle... it wasn't good enough!” His tale was cut-off by the teacher.

The light bulb hovering above my head after his story, however, was burning bright.

By that point, I was over the moon with excitement. Perhaps I should have felt sympathy for the beautiful boy beside me, but honestly, the only thing going through my head was how much better I could do that.

It took me two days of plotting. A stunt of this magnitude takes planning, gathering supplies...and subterfuge. I took my time casually asking my mom questions inside two or three hour intervals, as not to arise suspicion. You understand, this was serious business. I could not afford adult suspicion, there was too much at stake! I sat and waited for my mom to get really overwhelmed with life, so overwhelmed she couldn't comprehend how fucked up my questions were before I'd ask,

“Hey mom, how hot does oil get in a frying pan?”

To which she'd reply, “I don't fucking know, Rachel, dammit. Don't put your hand into it!”

Or even better, “Mom, Pyrex means fire proof, right?”

I'm sure if she's reading this now, my mother is putting two and two together and realizing where exactly she went wrong with her oldest child.

I'm almost sorry too.

Things were going great. I already had everything laid out for a pyromaniac's wet dream, and it was going to be magical. After my conference with my over-worked mother and her cooking wisdom, I decided a Pyrex casserole dish would be the ideal vessel to satisfy my burning desires. The hard part was going to be procuring gasoline from the shed. Like most suburban dads, my stepfather Pete kept all of his combustibles locked up in a meticulously organized, padlocked tomb full of wonders. Pete wasn't as naive as my mom, he always knew I was fucked in the head. He didn't trust me with shit.

That's where the subterfuge comes into play. I had to sift through all of my knowledge, limited as it was, about strategic maneuvers, while honing each one of my acting abilities to peak effectiveness. Pete was smart. The key to success here would mean I'd have to be sneakier than he was intelligent. But I approached the challenge with the stealth of a Navy Seal.

Victory would be mine.

People underestimate the power of stupidity, and how more often than not, it takes a certain level of brilliance, even creativity to achieve something that will shock people for years. What is my gift for pulling off these awe-inspiring feats, you ask? Good old fashioned manipulation. Pete was able to provide us with the manicured lifestyle we had because he was a pretty awesome business man. It wasn't hard for me to figure out that all I needed to do was appeal to that side of his personality.

“Pete,” I shouted across the lawn, “I've got a business proposition for you, man!” One could argue that talking to your parents as though they are your age is disrespectful. I would disagree with that one person because they couldn't be more wrong. I think speaking to my parents the way I always have allowed me a certain level of forgiveness...maybe even pity. Forward I marched confidently to where my stepfather stood cleaning the pool. He, like my mother, was often tired after work, which as you know, is always the best time to strike.

“I've been meaning to talk to you about my financial situation, Pete,” I said with all the arrogance of a forty-year-old man. “I don't have one, but I'd like you to change that.” His dry chuckle was a warning to proceed with caution. I learned over the years that Pete does not find me funny.

“And how would I do that, Rachel?” Just like every time Pete spoke to me when I was that age, his voice oozed with near disgust. We get on great now that I'm an adult. It won't take long for you to understand where he was coming from back then.

“Well, stepfather,” I said. “I'd like to earn some money, and hopefully lighten the burden that is your homeowner responsibilities, if you'll agree to it, of course.”

He wouldn't look me in the eye so I couldn't tell if he was disinterested or simply mulling the idea over. He groaned before speaking,

“Well, if you're serious, this lawn needs mowing, and there's a ton of weeds that need pulling.”

Mowing the lawn would mean I'd be using the lawn mower---which from what I understood about motors, survived on gasoline.

“Hell yeah---I mean, er yes, Sir, I'm totally interested,” I half shouted. Quickly smiling afterward hoping I was convincingly eager.

There was no part of me that wanted to spend what sounded like the next two days in the sun doing manual labor. We lived on three and a half acres of land that, to my dismay was covered by vegetation. A daunting task indeed--- But sacrifices must be made, I told myself, for the greater good!

A decent person would have acknowledged how immensely fucked up it was to ask for compensation while knowing they were about to do something that could set the entire property on fire. But the thing about decent people is they don't understand deceit. My plan depended on my stepfather giving me access to gasoline, and the only reason a teenage girl would want to help around the house is for money. Maybe I'm evil, but the part of my brain that controlled my conscience was over-powered by the part of my brain that wanted to burn stuff.

It seemed to me that following Saturday afternoon, the stars were aligning in my favor. My parents had errands to run which would take them the better part of the day to complete. Also, my older stepsister was away visiting friends. The only one around to witness me invoking the fire gods was my little sister; we all know they (younger siblings) go along with whatever so long as they get to help.

“Time for mayhem,” I said to myself as my parents disappeared around the corner. While gathering my supplies a maniacal giggle would try to burst through my lips, I would recover, saving face by telling my sister I had the hiccups. I thought of everything, rubbing petroleum jelly all over mine and my sister's exposed skin, dampening our clothing with the hose, then turning it on the lawn to dampen the surrounding grass. In hindsight, I realize I should have put more thought into the possibility of flaming projectile objects.

But we'll get to that in a moment.

“Dude,” my sister whispered. “Are you sure you know what you're doing.”

I mustered every ounce of my teenage arrogance replying, “Yeah, I've got this. Just try not to catch on fire and we'll be fine.”

Like most people in my position, I had no idea what I was doing. I wasn't gonna let ignorance stop me, though. Pouring gasoline into the white casserole dish at my feet was the most dangerously delicious thing I'd ever done in my life.

Once the match was sparked, my entire body lit up with joy along with it. Pushing my sister behind me, as I too, took three steps back, I tossed the book of lit matches into my mom's least favorite pyrex dish.

The loud foom from the sudden flash of red heat was drowned out by a frightening crack as what I thought was fire proof material exploded, sending tiny pieces of glass in every direction...along with the flames inside it.

As you can imagine, things escalated quickly from there on. A beautiful nightmare ensued as random items in the yard began to smoke, smolder, then burst into tiny infernos. It was like walking through the gates of Narnia, to be honest. Nothing could have pleased me more. It was way better than anything I expected, there was so much fire! While my sister was fiddling with her cell phone appearing tempted to dial 911, I was giddy as a fat kid who just stole their grandmother's diabetes sugar stash, chasing fledgling fires and dousing them with the hose. Giggles were bursting through my throat, goose pimples covered my flesh, I never felt more alive. But while I was trying to contain the aftermath of the explosion, the original location of my experiment had become a towering wall of flames. The puddle of gas that burst through the casserole dish, was rapidly spreading, fueling my home-made Hell.

But then I had that thought that only Harry Potter ---and myself could have,

"I am a wizard!"

Ignoring my sister's disgusted, and scandalized glare, I jumped into action. Squinting at the flames, I willed them to get smaller...nothing happened. So I did what anyone else would do, I placed my index fingers on my temples to show the fire how serious I was.

Still, nothing happened.

About 2 whole minutes of my life were wasted trying to will gasoline-fueled flames to die before I faced the reality that I wasn't, in fact, a wizard---and I needed to get some water fast. While running toward one of the buckets of water I had set aside in case of emergency a sharp stinging forced me to look down.

The material of my basketball shorts had begun melting on my flesh. I couldn't believe how bad it hurt. The knowledge that this idea was as poorly thought out as the Prom King's, hurt way worse. But I had to keep moving, the flames were fast approaching the new deck.

I was almost numb to the consequences coming my way. It was a beautiful fear I was feeling.

“Fuck this, I'm calling the fire department,” my sister screamed.

“Yes! You should do that,” I screamed back, my face just inches from hers.

I spun around throwing yet another bucket of water at the base of the fire and saw no results.

My brain was melting faster than my mom's lawn gnome. I had no idea how to get away with this.

Meanwhile, my sister was screaming, “We're so fucked, dude. We're so fucked, dude!” She just kept shouting it as though I didn't know I'd overestimated my brilliance. It was nice that she put herself in the line of fire with me, though. I always knew she was a good kid.

The fire didn't spread too far since the soil absorbed a lot of the gas. Firefighters made it to the scene to find two ash-stained teenagers running around a five foot wide, at least eight-foot tall fire, each of them throwing buckets of water on the unruly force of nature.

After pushing us to the side and easily snuffing out the flames, we received what I thought was the wisest speech I'd ever heard. It could have been that fireman John was a total sex machine. I'll let you decide:

“You girls are lucky this stunt of yours didn't cost you your lives. Fire is dangerous."

He was so smart, I thought to myself. And he only got smarter each time he saved me that following summer...