But, ja, Valentines Day. Even though he liked drinking, rarely did he get drunk. V.D. was that rarity. Drinking straight shots of top shelf tequila he was doing fine: not stumbling too much. Coherent. Good, polite conversations. (Two people had told him that he looked like the devil in-carnate, which strangely pleased and surprised him). So, it was fine. He was happy. It was when Grace said that they should go to the next party and they went to leave, that the failure became apparent; a funny lack of memory from that point on, which only, much later, Gracies stories shed a light on.


Apparently, she had to half-carry him through the Border control check point. It should be said that Grace is the biggest Greek he'd ever known. She was a giant! Taller than him (he was 6' 2") by a good three inches, blond, an ex Marine, she was a true Amazon. Then she carried him to the parking lot to her car and said "get in" to which he replied that he didn't feel like going, and again she said "get in, you fool, don't you see all the Border Patrols?". So it went like that, back and forth a few times, so he just laid down to make his point. Laying on the ground once more feebly he said he didn't wanna go. By then, the Border Patrols were all around, the police were there with dogs, and it was a full blown spectacle. Somehow, Grace left without him and , again, somehow, he made it to his car. Why they let him do this, nobody says. He should've gone to jail. It was a major miracle. Four hours later he woke up and drove three miles home. The next day he knew that his drinking days were over. I'm too old for this shit he remembered saying to himself.
But now, almost two weeks later, it still yanks at him. Go get a beer! And he almost does, but it doesn't work. See, how this fire is pretty normal? All white yellow orange red and pinks? The blue one was different. Driving back from Deming. Too much time on the straightest of roads. What else to do? Think. About beer. About the disgust of being a traitor to Uncle Wasyl. He of the huge red nose visible blocks away. Family traditions, man!!!.. Remembered driving on this same road months ago, and getting mad at himself for not having bought any beers. A gallon jug of wine instead. So he thought "what the fuck", you know? Uncapped it and took a healthy swig. Then another. And began laughing as he imagined a patrolman pulling him over and asking just what the hell did he think he was doing? "Duh!!! Uh, um I think I was dislocating my shoulder with this heavy ole jug. Just to whet my whistle, you know?"... Maybe the morning was different. The cold that woke him up at five. Deciding not to go back to sleep. Actually enjoying the cold upon getting out of bed and getting dressed. Taking his time. Savoring the feeling on his skin. It's pretty real. Both heat and cold. Going into the trailer and setting the water to boil for coffee. Popping a roll into the electric toaster. Finding the butter. "gonna be a long day" ran through his mind as he picked his nostril.
Was afraid the blue somehow wouldn't show. With how fast fire changes it's hard to say. He'd sit and watch and try to understand what it was that he was seeing. Ja. Fire. But what is it? How does it come out of the wood so quickly, with just one match and a little kindling? Sure. Everything in the desert so dry that it would seem you don't even need a match. Still... So it's heat and light. Wasn't it the heat that drove him to make 'em in the first place? To get out of the cold in his body after all night? Sometimes taking off his shoes and passing the feet right through the flames to warm the ice cube toes.. Body warming up but feet still cold on the frozen ground? Which made him wonder about light. So what? You need heat before you have light? At some point remembering the laser pointers that seemed pretty cold, but for a fact he knew that on really cold days he'd pass by a lightbulb and feel the heat coming off of that. The sun, it's said, is billions of atomic bombs going off constantly, so plenty of heat to give off light there. Funny how he never thought of the light-heat connection. Took it for granted as sun baked everybody on some beach. But now, it's impossible to not think that cold is the absence of light. But you can be in a dark hot oven, dumbass!
Oh
Besides the warmth and scant light by which to see the essentials within armsreach, his coffee and smokes, it was the sheer everchanging beauty of the flames that was so mesmerizing. Hypnotic, really. In this sea of cold darkness all around them, this island with the wild dancing fire was all that existed. A smile spread in the shadows cast on his face by the dancing light, as, reaching for his nose he remembered Mr Allen, his landlord long ago back in Philly. He'd make it a point to personally come pay his rent every month, mainly because he enjoyed the old gentle- man, and because his secretary was the quirkiest, most enchanting lady ever. She was so non- chalant in a vague way that he'd fall into an ocean of warmth just seeing her busy in a corner. Having to deal with her when Mr Allen wasn't there was almost too much for both of them. The subtle enjoyment was so profound they'd float in the silence of eye exploration. Marveling at the depth of joy so simple. It was there that he'd first encountered this hanging snot thing. Mr Allen must've had some sort of a record in Philly for being unconcerned about the length of shiny strings that would dangle under his breath, catching onto his vest, or sweater. It was the secretary's wise smile that would ease the complex unease he'd feel from the visuals he couldn't take his eyes away from. It didn't make any sense. The old man was so classy, so gentle. And there they were, and here were, now, his, as he pulled an extraordinarily long and tenacious one outta his nostril with his thumb. After some scrutiny, he carefully attached it to a twig sort of not quite in the flames, and watched it dangle. Wondering what would happen. Would it fall down, as it continued stretching? Would it dry up and break from the radiating heat? Would it burn?