A Life of Being Bic'd

This piece was originally published in Ducts Magazine in 2018. It received dozens of rejections but became my first paid publication. I was 25 years old, and I remember thinking, why all the rejections? This 3rd draft is almost perfect. I LOVE DUCTS.

Then I received notes from the editor, realized it wasn’t perfect, rewrote it, and once again thought, Ooo, people are gonna love this.

Now, five years later, I’m rereading my work and thinking, holy shit, this is far from perfect. Why was I so upset by the rejections? What value will people get out of this? Is it shareable? Will it generate conversation? Is it niche or broad? Does it align with my brand 🤮? I better change this and that and—

Screw it. This story was fun to write. I’m not trying to prove anything here. Although it’s ridden with Born Without Borders themes, it’s not the usual cultural psychology article, travel and immigration-related story, or sociopolitical essay.

I’ve struggled to make a living as a writer for the past twelve years, and the failures often make me forget why I got into writing in the first place — I enjoy it.

Chapter 1: A Catchy First Sentence

I saw the world, but not by choice.

Chapter 2: The Gas Station

Red was the first to go. She ended up in the hands of one of our regular customers—a trucker with “ride or die” tatted on his neck. Little Blue ended up with a hippie carrying a fake I.D. And me? I ended up with a soccer mom.

I thought I was one of the lucky $1.30 lighters cause I was finally out—out of the gas station. The life of watching kids steal bags of Doritos and studded condoms was behind me.

Chapter 3: Suburbia

“Vicky, Darling, I just love—I mean LOVE—what you’ve done here,” Sharron said as soon as Victoria and I walked into the backyard.

“Really? The three bouncy castles aren’t too much?” Vicky asked.

 “No, not at all. Billy’s so lucky to have you as a mother. All the kids are having such a good time.”   

“Oh, I’m glad.”  

“Yeah, me too.”  

“Anyway, about the next PTA meeting…”    

They were one of those families.    

When it was time for the birthday cake, everything changed.

Vicky held me in her manicured hands, the softness of her skin making me hotter by the second. I had never thought about making fire before, but with Vicky, I felt safe. I didn’t want to give up my fire so quickly, but when she serenaded me with “Happy Birthday,” I knew I’d give in.

Then she did it—she spun my spark wheel. Fire spat out from me with an insuppressible passion. I might just be a generic, no-name brand lighter, but on that day—that day, I felt like a Zippo.

I was living the good life.

Sure, little Billy used me to light the family portrait on fire (he didn’t get the iPad he wanted), but that led to Vicky’s weekly de-stress ritual. Every Sunday, Vicky would make herself Epsom salt baths, and I’d light the lavender-scented candles. She would wash, and I would watch.

One Sunday, Vicky’s husband, Ron, came into the bathroom. (Don’t worry, Ron and I had a mutual understanding.)

“Ethan just called. We’re going out for a few drinks,” Ron said.

“Honey, I made a roast for tonight.”

“The roast will still be here when I’m back.”

“But it’s Sunday. We—”

“This isn’t up for discussion.”

Then Ron grabbed me in his thick, calloused man hands—he probably didn’t want to leave me alone with his now angry wife.

“You can be such an asshole, asshole!” was the last thing I heard Vicky say.

Chapter 4: La Chatte

The room was humid from men panting and women sweating. La Chatte had a French name and floors that didn’t stick; it was the classy strip joint.

Miss E-Z was performing. Only a childhood of gymnastic training and an obsession with MTV could produce such maneuvers.

“Ronny boy, I bet if you throw her a hundy, she’ll step outside with us,” said Ron’s friend.

The stripper did step outside, and things happened in the alleyway I prefer not to talk about.

“Do you have a light, hun?”

Ron tossed me to the stripper.

What are you doing? What’s going on, Ron? You’re supposed to light the smoke for her like a gentleman. But no, you’re no gentleman. You malicious, menacing, shit you.

I knew I shouldn’t light her smoke. I shouldn’t ruin my polyandrous relationship with Ron and Vicky. Was Ron testing me? It didn’t matter. I couldn’t help myself. I needed to light something.

Chapter 5: Nicaragua

“Necesito cuatro kilos el viernes, Juan.” I need four kilos by Friday, Juan, the CIA agent said.

“Necesitamos que mueran Ricardo y sus hombres.” We need Ricardo and his men dead, said Juan.

“Está hecho.” It’s done, said the CIA agent.

“Entonces es hora de bailar tango.” Then it’s time to tango, said Juan.

How the hell did this lighter end up in Nicaragua? This story feels rushed. That’s what you’re probably thinking. You could call me a mind reader, a clairvoyant of sorts. Surprisingly, it only took twelve hours to get here. When you feel the way I do about sparking, you’ll go anywhere with anyone. The formula goes as follows:

Miss E-Z (also an escort). —>  Congressman (surprisingly left-leaning. Great stance on immigration). —>  Back to an escort (this one looked like my Vicky. Oh Vicky, my love, my life, my one and only true spark spinner). —>  Banker (his wife left him, so don’t judge too quickly). —>  Drug lord (a very polite guy, actually). —>  Colombian military official (he gives fabulous massages and knows how to spin a spark wheel). —> The CIA agent (ugh, don’t even get me started. So many lies). —> Juan (a drug trafficker and tango aficionado).

Time flies in private jets.

Chapter 6: The Formula Cont’d

Juan (we go dancing in an underground Tango Bar in Argentina). —> Mrs. Martin (an esteemed tango dancer and cocaine enthusiast). —> Mr. Martin (crooked police officer). —> Joel Wayne (a kid who had to give all his cash to Mr. Martin for smoking pot). —> Tony Evangelista (a buddy Joel met in Argentina.

Tony brought me to Venice, which, by the way, is totally over-rated—way too much water. —> Bobby Grant (a frugal young traveller that brought me all over southeast Asia after he’d ‘done’ Europe). —> Jessica Klinger (she met Bobby in a designated smoking area in Denpasar’s airport—which doesn’t even close its doors to the regular part of the terminal. Anyway, she brings me to South Africa). —> Ricky Stevens (he falls in love with Jessica, but must return home to Colorado). —> Jane Stevens (smokes weed with her cousin and then decides to disfigure me to make a greater flame.

Now I ejaculate like an adolescent horn dog. However, Jane brings me back home to Seattle.

Alright, so some of you may have taken a first-year creative writing course, and you’re thinking too much telling, not enough showing. Well, fine, here you go.

THIS

TO THIS

A character arc and all.

Chapter 7: The Climax (or Denouement, if You Will)

This brings us to the present.

Here I am, ejaculating flames all over Jane’s joint—my lighter fluid is almost out. I figure I may as well enjoy myself and become one highlighter. Sorry (not sorry) for the pun.

Jane goes to spark her joint—I cough up a pathetic spark. Jane throws me down on the table.

“Jane, just tilt me to the side, damn it,” I say.

She pulls out a box of matches, the little slut.

“You’re no match for me,” I say. She doesn’t hear my clever pun. I’m a lighter.

She lights her joint with the match, cheating on me before my eyes. Maybe I was nothing to her, nothing to anyone. My addiction was used to the advantage of others.

She throws the match on the ground and walks out from her unkempt incense-scented apartment. Her flea-market carpet begins to burn. I try to throw my body onto the match to diffuse it; go down in a blaze of glory, but I can’t.

The flames devour the basement apartment. Who lives upstairs? I feel myself melting into the carpet. I see a bright light. Am I going to heaven? No. It’s just more flames. I feel something new. Have I crossed over to another dimension? I’m warm inside, but I have no insides. I’m nothing. I’m everything. I’m in a land of perpetual burning. The land that was brought together by lighters, connected by fire.

If you believe in research and writing that break down borders, foster cross-cultural understanding, and inspire people to live unbound, consider becoming a paid subscriber to Born Without Borders.
All my work is published on Ghost, a decentralized, non-profit, and carbon-neutral platform—free from VC funding and the grip of technofeudal lords.
I don’t use algorithms to hijack your attention.
My work can only exist if you share and support it.

• Become a Paid Member: Get access to all exclusive content and potentially included access to certain courses/workshops and directly support this work for just $5/ month or $50 / year.
• Become a Founding Member: For those who want to make sure I stay off the platforms causing mental illness, polarization, and a technofeudal shit show. Your deeper support makes all the difference for $30/ month or $300 / year.