How to Start a Fire

At night, William Butler lay awake thinking of all the ways he could tell the world how much he hated people.  He hated the way they talked towards him.  The damage they had done by just existing in his presence.  He wish he could live in some desolate area of the globe where humans didn’t existed.  He didn’t mind animals because he liked to hunt.

At the start of each day, Will slept through four rings of his alarm until the light peeking through his window reminded him so much of meaningless existence his body hurt.  When his body started to hurt Will reminded himself he must medicate.  Picking up a small bong from a bedside table, Will indulged in the daily ritual of waving a lighter over a glass bowl and sucking air until his lungs hurt.  For a brief moment, as he took his head away from the bong the world felt still.  The world felt like people had frozen forever. 

“The sun should set around 6:30 today with a temperature at sunset around 71 degrees,” a white television host smiled into the camera.  Even at 9:30 in the morning, Will step-father had nothing better to do than plop himself in front of the television.  He sometimes brought a newspaper and sometimes he did not.  Every morning he listened to the sound of Will’s alarm and took a mental account of the likelihood Will would wake up.  The account involved betting against Will until about the second ring whereabout Will, Wednesday.

“Hello,” Will’s stepfather greeted him as he walked down the stairs in his work uniform of apron, hat, and stained dark-blue jeans.  Will never responded both because he hated everyone around him and also because if he did have the urge to talk such an intuition wouldn’t take place until much later in the day.

As he unlocked his bicycle in the front yard, Will pondered Camus and Nietzche quotes about suffering and existence.  The philosophers by all accounts had not seen his day to day habits.  If they had, they would rethink the bearings of existentialism and perhaps change the name to survivalism.  Survivalism by means of cannabis, caffeine, and rampant media addiction.  From the time Will gets to work until the final close, the day passes before him in an almost brutal manner. 

Before getting the chance to ponder his own survivalism, Will finds himself back on his bed.  No step-fathers around and no distractions.  The observation compels him to open his computer and begin typing away at his only hope of finally escaping the economic and political realities in which he finds himself.  He can finish a story today.  The longest story of all time.

The story of life time, Will considers.  Of course the story does not use any real names including the author but the figures feel as real as anything gets.  As Will types away in the solace of his bedroom he feels the catharsis.  The release of tension as people die and the world shuts down.  

“The Pink Cowboy,” he mutters to himself as he types the words into the heading of a blog post.  What makes a cowboy “pink” not even he knows.  Will never had a natural talent for writing, but he had a natural talent for words.  He felt if he spoke or wrote things people could change their minds around him.  The urge to write only lasts Will about 15 minutes. 

Closing his computer he thinks about a day where someone in the far reaches of the world would read his prose.  He thinks about the day where he would find a girl named Vanessa still frozen by the world and find a time where they could live in harmony.  He thinks about his wild, nomadic nature which causes him to live alone.  The similarities strike everyone else but Will when things come to his writing.  He doesn’t mind people talking about him--- if he did, he’d have acted in a different way by now. 

Years later, so the story of W.B Teller ends.  Will has written “The Pink Cowboy” and someone else will discover his genius.  His lack of marketing savvy has driven him to a point where he can’t wait for the prospect of death to bring notoriety to his work.  Will can’t wait for people to come to their senses about how they wronged him in every way.  In the distance, he hears the footsteps of his step-father up the shaky staircase. 

“Will, you need to take out the garbage,” he says in an almost too calm manner.  Will acts asleep.  He opens his computer a final time before completing the task and writes a note at the top of his blog.  The note reads something along the lines of… The Collected Works of Will by W.B Teller.  He thinks how brilliant the title sounds in his mind and the thought gets him excited for other’s to read.

Months pass by before Will ever looks at The Collected Works again.  The day comes where he thinks about perhaps starting again, but he can’t bring himself to do anything.  He can’t bring himself to a level of sadness he felt when writing the Pink Cowboy.  His Vanessa hasn’t reached out to him and the lack of romantic prospects makes his thoughts dull.

Looking back on the works, Will considers their compilation his life’s work.  He felt if his words could reach said audience around the world he could die a happy person.  Unlike a famous musician or painter he could live in an anonymous life.  So the story goes, he would somehow now have an endless supply of money without the harsh realities of fame. 

Will could go to Los Angeles.  In his mind, he dreamed of the place as a kind of mythic land. When he fulfilled his romantic life in L.A he could become a better writer.  Like the rest of the rich anonymous people in L.A, he could go on wild dates where the girl would ask him questions about his what he did for work.  She would ask after how he could afford such a fancy dinner.

After years of the casual dates and his new life, Will would reveal to his partner how he took up the persona of W.B Teller and became one of the world’s most famous authors in complete secret.  She would marvel over his accomplishments and the two would spend the rest of their lives together supported by his writing.  Will snapped back to his own reality.

His mind began plan the actual ways in which he could get to Los Angeles to give his copy of The Collected Works to publishers.  Once they saw his genius everything else would fall into place.  In his small town, Will found the only printer available to print a 50 page document. 

“You want how many pages?” a sullen old lady asked him as she maneuvered a paper jam in the old machine.  The library had a dusty quality which reminded Will how everything hin his town felt almost beyond saving.  If the printer could not even work Will should not show any bit of sympathy he didn’t even have anymore. 

“About 35,” Will lied to her.  She knew, but didn’t care.  She opened the paper tray and slammed the thing shut with the rage of working 30 hour weeks in a dusty library for $14 an hour.  Will wondered in the back of his mind what they would do all day if they did not have people to jam the printer with 50 page documents. 

“$4.00” she snarled with an outstretched palm, reminding Will he had to go to an ATM.  He went and returned fifteen minutes later to another sullen looking white-haired lady holding the paper and looking as if she had wasted the best years of her life reading Will’s stuff.  He concluded she had indeed not read the first page but instead read the dull description embossed before the story even began.  Will looked at her like a schizophrenic looks at the walls of his room.  She handed over the pages to him.

“Thank you,” Will bowed in a kind of royal way.  As he left the dusty library, he noticed the shelves of travel books which filled the place’s “Children’s Section”.  Having worked at a travel agency himself Will wondered what type of child would ever pick up a book about “The Top 50 Things To-Do in Rome”.  He opened the door, found his bike and pedaled home before anyone could see him with the pages. 

As he pedaled, he thought of music.  He thought of his main character Miles.  He peered down at the pages and noticed the fresh pink and printing of “The Pink Cowboy” on the third page.  If Will could learn how to make a table of contents he would have made one.  He pedaled on to a peculiar site at his house.  His step-dad sat on the curb outside, palm to his forehead. 

As Will watched firetrucks pull onto the opposite side of the street, he noticed what had happened.  His step-father, now noticing Will did not say a word to him.  Coming closer to the wreck, Will could smell the smoke and ash.  His beloved books had charred.  The sirens came even closer, causing Will to realize the only thing he had involved his bikes, a backpack, and The Collected Works.

As he surveyed the scene, even more he wondered how much damage the fire had done.  As the firefighters did their job he noticed pretty much everything covered in a black soot and disintegrated.  Will’s whole life in the comfort of one bedroom.  His coworkers would not believe him, the lady at the library would not believe him, and neither would any of his characters.

Will thought once again what his rockstar Miles would do in the situation.  The dire situation Will now found himself surrounded by.  The harsh reality his step-father faced as he screamed into a mobile phone.  Miles chased after Vanessa of course.  Miles loved only music and in the far off universe of Greenlake he felt comfortable a lone wolf.

Will put the collected works in his backpack and decided to pedal to Los Angeles.  He decided to pedal towards Vanessa.  Against the odds, he could make his way to Rooster and build a new life with only The Collected Works to anchor him.  The more Will thought about the fire the harder he pedaled.  He had to escape now before the internal fire became too hot to handle.

After biking for thirty minutes, Will found a place to rest.  With the two dollars in his pocket he walked into the corner store and bought a Pepsi.  Sitting in a quiet corner next to the store, he took his story out of his backpack and began to read.  He could not bring himself past the first few lines.  Tears began to well in his eyes as he realize what must happen now.