The Arsonist's Handbook

by L. A. Detwiler

  “Shit, that’s crazy,” Pete admitted. Fire fascinated him as a boy, perhaps because of his mother’s habit of lighting cigarettes and falling asleep. He often had nightmares of the whole trailer bursting into flames, the window that never opened trapping him in an inferno of death.

  “Yeah. I hope they catch him soon. Anyway, there are donuts in the breakroom. Thought I’d let you know. Looks like you could use a pick-me-up.” She offered her signature wave, her red fingernails on the other hand clicking on the arm of her desk chair as she wheeled her way back to her desk gracefully. He needed a pick-me-up after Maria’s depressing morning conversation.

  Still, as he worked on the spreadsheet after snagging a cream-filled, his mind danced over the story she’d told. The arsonist was back. It sent an energizing shiver through him that both terrified and excited him. What made someone want to burn down that many places? You’d have to be pretty twisted, so far gone down the dark rabbit hole that you burned down places over and over. Maybe Pete’s life wasn’t so fucked up after all.

  At the judgmental thought, though, Pete reluctantly swallowed down a lump of guilt with the pastry. He did know something about the pull of addiction—about how once you did a bad thing, it was so easy to keep on doing it. Perhaps he should get off his high horse. He was no saint, that was for sure. And as he swallowed down another lump, a new feeling bubbled in his chest. One he thought had died long ago. He could blame Anna’s interaction with him this morning. Or maybe it was the sight of Maria’s tight legs. But whatever it was, that old desire was creeping in and making him feel alive again.

  It was the perfect weekend, in truth. Anna would be gone and wouldn’t be checking in. He was free—free to make choices of his own. He needed to find someone to watch Tanner, and then the night was his. He wheeled back around the partition, feeling emboldened by the possibility. If only for one night, he could escape from it all. From the constraints of his shitty desk job, of his dilapidated marriage, and of disappointment for a life that didn’t end up going where he wanted. The world didn’t know his name—but for one night, he could be in charge. That would have to be enough to soothe his blackened soul, Pete supposed.

  “Hey, Maria? Can I ask you a favor?”

  And when she turned to him, he eyed her thighs once more, wishing he had a different babysitter he could turn to so maybe he could see whether those flirtatious eyes were for him.

  The Boy

  He was so young when his father left that he had few memories of him. Perhaps that’s why he grew up envying fathers, desiring to be a father. He wanted to have that bond. Still, even though he was so young, he had one memory of the man who fathered him.

  His father crying.

  The towering man looked so small hunkered in the corner of the bathroom, sunk onto the floor. There had been shouting that startled him awake, and he’d gone to see what Mama was doing. She growled again, and he’d grabbed his teddy bear to comfort himself. He sucked his thumb, rocking in the doorway. Neither one noticed him. A bottle broke as Mama threw it.

  “Stupid redneck. You stupid, stupid man,” Mama shouted. She was always shouting.

  His father was crying.

  “Stop fucking crying, or it’ll be the last tears you shed. Now get the hell up. I’m not watching you all night. It makes me sick.”

  And with that, she’d stomped out of the bathroom. She paused above him, and he pulled his thumb out of his mouth. Mama didn’t like it when he sucked his thumb. She said he was too old. He stood up straight, dropping the Teddy Bear. He waited for her to explain or to comfort him. She didn’t.

  She looked at him and said, “Boy, men are strong. Men don’t cry. Men don’t fucking cry. Remember that.”

  And he did.

  He fucking did.

  Chapter Five

  Jameson

  I stood underneath the tree where I once had dreamed of building a treehouse. I used to imagine he’d come back in time to help me hammer up the floor, to plan out the rope’s placement, and build a box for stashing valuables. I used to dream of bringing my sketchbooks and charcoal out here to make pictures of the scenery. My father would be so impressed by the drawings, I imagined. He would praise me and ask me if he could take one with him for his office.

  The tree sits empty, though, the treehouse a thing of my dreams like so many other things. The sketchbooks sit in a stack in my room with no one to see them, like me. I breathe in deeply, considering how pointless this is. I look down at the squirrel carcass. What kind of an idiot wanders through the forest for two hours to find a dead fucking squirrel?

  I do. A boy desperate to feel, desperate to connect with a man he doesn’t know. It’s a weakness, I know. But perhaps out of the weakness I can resurrect forgotten strength.

  I flick the lighter in my hand. I think he uses matches, according to the journal. But the lighter will have to do. I don’t even know if this will work, if it will be something that I like. It seems pretty pointless all of a sudden, I realize, staring at the smashed squirrel’s body. What could someone get out of it, after all? Mom’s right. I should be looking for work, trying to sort out shit. Trying to figure out how I can find a decent job, make a living, and find a normal sense of life outside of the smoke-infused dump we live in.

  I should be doing so many things—but there’s a pull to this. A strong calling that I can’t explain. I want to do something I know he does. I want to be a part of his world. It’s fucking sad. I shake my head and roll my eyes at myself. Still, I sigh and do the only thing I can do that will put it to rest. I flick the lighter, feeling the wave of warmth near my fingers. They tingle with a need I didn’t know existed.

  I stare at the flame, as I have so many times. Lighting a cigarette. Lighting Mom’s candles. There’s always been something in me when I see that flicker of light, when I feel that tiny puff of heat. I wonder if he feels it every single time, too. I know he does. His journal tells me everything I need to know. His words are like poetry about his addiction. They showcase it as a thing of beauty.

  Today, staring at the flame, it feels more prominent, and I feel more present in my life. Or maybe I’m seeing what it is for the first time. I lean down to the carcass, putting fire to it like some sacrificial ritual straight out of a dystopian novel. I watch the fur catch, watch the flame spread in the tiny pit I’ve built for the experiment. I study the smoke rising and smell the repugnant yet captivating odor of burning hair.

  I’d like to say it doesn’t do anything for me. I’d like to say I laugh and walk away from the makeshift pit and the ridiculous experiment, feeling dumber than usual and sad that I’ve let my imagination run away. I wish I could note that like the treehouse I once dreamed about, this was a crazy vision that was never meant to come to fruition.

  But as I stare at the engulfed body of the dead animal, I feel a tingling in my palms and itching in my fingers. More than that, I sense a stirring in my chest. I inhale, the smell of smoke and burning fur flooding my lungs in a way that should be repulsive but is life-giving. I cough a bit, but the lack of oxygen doesn’t strip me of emotion. Instead, I breathe in life for the first time in a long time. Maybe ever.

  A purpose, a passion spread through me.

  For once, I’m not Jameson, the weird kid in the corner. I’m Jameson, the one with the lighter, with the power, with the guts.

  I crouch down in the grass, sitting by the smoldering flame, lost in a world where there is possibility. My father disappeared before I could know him. But perhaps I’ve underestimated the genetics he’s given me, the blood in my veins, and the connection we have from the fact that I’m his. Biology is a strong presence. We are all products of our pasts, of our genetics, and of our families, if Mr. Stinson is to be believed. Perhaps my father did leave something behind for me—a love for the same thing that lit him up quite literally.

  When I finally smother the burning carcass and study the leftover ash and bones, I think about how good it feels even though it’s a small thing. I
think about how proud he would be to know I found my way to him, even without knowing it. Above all, I think about what it would be like to burn something else, something bigger. I think about what it would be like to follow in his footsteps.

  Is this the path that will bring him back to me?

  I can only hope, I realize, as I habitually flick the lighter on the way back into the house, the glow of the flame reflecting from the window of the door as I open it and go back inside.

  Rule 2: Always watch from a distance.

  There is but one regret I have in this lofty choice of profession—I am rarely brave enough to stand close by, to feel the warmth of the raging inferno as it all burns. I instead must peruse my work from a distance, imagining the flash of heat as my eyes are transfixed by the glow of my work.

  But dear friend, bravery is not the right term when it comes to how close you stand. It is not brave to stand close to the fire, to remain at the scene like so many in our field do. Stupidity would mark the arsonist who stands too close by his work because it often leads them to get caught. The lit fire, the steady melting of life to ash, this is not work you admire from close up. This is a masterpiece that you create and then abandon, leaving in the hands of the world. You let others bear witness to your labors as you, the anonymous artist, slinks away into the night. It is the benefit of the raging flames, though, that they can be admired from a distance. The artist gets at least a backrow view of his work.

  It is the haughty arsonist who stands too close and risks getting caught—and then what will be left of the list to be burned? Who will take up the monumental task of finishing the job? It is not worth sacrificing the other masterpieces that you have not yet created to admire this one up close.

  No, it is safer from far away. I always watch from a distance, but that doesn’t mean I can’t feel it in my bones as the house, the car, the barn turns to ash. I know the flame intimately. It is the dearest of friends. Thus, even when distance separates us, I can still feel the flames lapping against my skin, their heat warming my body with a silky, resonating touch.

  Fire’s effects, after all, can be felt from far away—distance, time, memory. These do not fade the transfixing aspects. They linger long after the fire is extinguished and the ashes have floated away in the wind. When you perform like that, it is seared into the memories of all affected and unaffected alike.

  And thus, with a final bow, my exit takes place.

  Chapter Six

  Pete

  The room smelled of sweat and mildew, but he didn’t care. Rolling over onto his back and studying the stained ceiling, he inhaled to remind himself: He was alive. That was what the foreign feeling surging within him was, an emotion that had fleeted away on a cloud of forsaken dreams. He’d forgotten what it felt like to choose a destiny, even if only for a few hours with a paid participant. He squashed the after-sex regret and guilt that ebbed in his mind and watched them sink. He deserved it. He needed it. They were falling apart anyway. A man had to feel like someone, even if it was just to a random woman in a skanky motel on the outskirts of town.

  He’d told himself six months ago that would be the last time. He’d sworn when he left her he was done with that rendezvous, a mid-life crisis of sorts. He had a good life. In the morning light when he left her behind, he convinced himself that he was changed. That what had happened in that room was the past. He didn’t need to seek out cheap thrills with women in this place. It didn’t make him a man. It didn’t make him any more powerful or worthy. He knew, though, it was all a lie, like so many other things about him. Because a man could only take feeling unimportant for so long. And even if it was for only an hour or two, they saw him. With their tight clothes and their tighter bodies, they saw him. The money he threw at them afterward was irrelevant. It didn’t detract from the electricity between them or the simple pleasure of being touched, of being noticed.

  His stomach clenched at the thought, though, of the particular one. He shuddered at the distinct memory of how it all went amiss—and how close he came to the pinnacle of cataclysm. But time, even six months, could dull any sense of wrongdoing. He’d assuaged his guilt and talked himself out of the horror. He convinced himself over the following weeks that it wasn’t as bad as he was making it out to be. And when he’d jumped back into bed with the next one and then the next, he assured himself it had been a simple mishap that wouldn’t happen again.

  Now, he glanced over at the empty side of the bed where the recent conquest had been. She’d left already, the crumpled sheets and the smell of sex reminders of what he’d accomplished. He wasn’t that man from six months ago. That was a dark time, an even darker time. It was okay now. He’d come to terms with it all.

  He breathed out through his pursed lips. He didn’t need to explain it away. It was done. He wouldn’t go there again. Of course, last time he’d been there, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t return to the motel, to the women, to the cheating at all. Some promises, though, begged to be broken. So he’d broken his own promise yet again. Was it even a promise anymore when he knew it was impossible to keep? He inhaled, sitting up to take stock of the room and to pull himself together.

  He needed to get back. Maria was only babysitting until eleven. He needed to go home, where he belonged. He needed to be the dad his father had never been. He needed to get it together.

  Fuck, did he need to get it together. He banged his head against the filthy headboard and ran a hand through his hair as he exhaled. He needed to figure his shit out. It wasn’t fair to his son, at the very least, that he wasn’t invested in it. He needed to stop living in a world of regrets and sadness over what he could’ve been. He needed to find that somewhat cocky, go-get-it attitude he had when he was a teen and pictured the world at his feet. It wasn’t too late. Your thirties weren’t too late to reinvent yourself, were they?

  Feeling surer of the future than he had in a while, he nodded to himself. This is it, he thought as he rolled over to the peeling nightstand and plucked his phone off the surface. This is the last time, for real. He couldn’t let some hot sex distract him from the man he needed to be. He had bigger things to conquer than some whore in a third-rate motel room.

  And as if the universe was warning him what a fuck-up he was, as if it wanted him to feel even more like shit, he looked at the missed calls filling his phone. Fourteen. They had started at nine when he was in the middle of—

  All from Anna. His heart sank. Her number rarely graced his phone anymore. Something had to be wrong. Had she been in an accident? He flicked on the light on the nightstand and called her, his breathing raspy. When she answered, he could decipher sobs, screams, and wails. But through the terror usurping him and sending an icy chill down his spine, he decoded a single, telling phrase.

  “Where the fuck were you?” she screeched.

  And his heart shattered into a thousand pieces, a heart he no longer possessed.

  Chapter Seven

  Jameson

  The dream comes to me again. It jolts me awake in the early morning hours, sweat dripping down my face as if the fire is burning nearby. I get my wits about me, though, and realize it was nothing but a dream.

  In it, I am standing outside a smoldering red barn illuminated against a brilliantly dark sky. He comes to me, a tall man who has a shadowed face but a familiar gait, a soothing voice. He ambles over to me, pats me on the back, and stands beside me. We admire my work together.

  “Good job, Son,” he whispers into the chilling night air. And I feel the pride pulse in my veins, a sense of dignity I’ve always craved but felt was out of reach.

  I glance up to him, the man who has plagued my imagination for so many years. The faceless man of my dreams, the face I long to see. Just as I’m about to set my gaze on him—I wake up. Disappointment clouds my thoughts every single time. Embarrassingly so.

  It’s a pathetic dream, I think as I brush my hair out of my eyes. Worse even than the holiday dreams or the baseball dreams I had as a boy, where
the shadow-faced man always showed up. Still, as I trod over to my window and stare out into the sad excuse for a lawn, I can’t help but wonder.

  What if?

  Maybe it’s why I’ve been playing with my lighter relentlessly, reading the journal obsessively. I’ve been considering my options, and pondering choices I never even thought existed. Nervous energy floods my chest when I think about what it would feel like to flick the lighter or toss a match at an actual object, something important, instead of the roadkill, the relics of my childhood, the jacket last week. My fingers twitch at the memories of what it was like to wield that power over a useless object. What would it be like to flick my wrist and destroy something that matters? Sinister pride permeates my blood at the thought of the town heeding me, even if they couldn’t put a face or name to their fear. It would be enough to know that my work, my actions were not only noticed but feared.

  I exhale so loudly, I think it will wake Mom. Frustration replaces the visions. I couldn’t do it, after all. It’s all a twisted hunger of a boy who feels forgotten. I could never cause destruction or find the reckless courage to pursue that path. I’m a good person deep down, despite that pack of gum last month and the fights I get into here and there. I’m not a criminal. I’m a silent nobody who fades into the background. I don’t have the guts to be someone who terrorizes.

  Still, as I shove the dark fantasies down, there’s a warmth in my blood I can’t ignore. It hypnotizes me, beckons me forward like a siren’s song. The thought that maybe, just maybe, I’m meant for more than the shitty school and the probably shittier job I’m headed toward. I’m meant to do something great, something worth noticing, even if I remain in the shadows. There’s a buzzing in my blood as I think about what it would be like to have my work, my masterpieces aired on the news, simultaneously admired and feared and misunderstood. There’s something to be said for being noticed, even if it isn’t by name. I imagine putting down my charcoals and my hidden drawings for a larger canvas, a bigger art show than I could’ve ever imagined.