The eternal battle between lighters and cellphones
Short-short #4
Every month I’m writing a new short-short.
“Back in ’69—” says the old man, sinking low in his wingback chair, firelight playing across his pockmarked wrinkles—“Jim and I were out in the Nevada desert, hundreds of miles from nothing, when his Harley broke down. No food, no water, no tools.
“But I had this—” he adds, leaning forward to show you his Zippo, and you feel the heat from its flame on your face.
“With nothing more than my lighter,” he says, “I managed to tighten the loose screws, temporarily solder a couple of parts, even jump-start the engine. Weren’t permanent, but it got the thing running well enough that we could get it to a garage. Saved both our lives.”
He spits a wad of phlegm on the ground, and you look to make sure he didn’t get any on your shoes.
“Back then,” he goes on, “seemed like you could do damned near anything with a lighter. We all carried ’em—” he snorts—“clipped ’em on our belts, always had ’em with us.
“A guy’s lighter was his emblem, his pride. It was who he was. We’d carve our initials in ’em, paint ’em with dragons and wizards, even plate ’em with gold. When Zeppelin launched into ‘Stairway’ and the crowd threw their lighters up in the air, it weren’t just a sea of flames, it was a sea of souls. Those were souls lighting up the night.”
A chuckle bubbles up through his throat, gets lost somewhere in his gray stubble. “Nowadays you go to a show and what are the kids holding up in the air? Their goddamned phones.
“What good is a phone?” he scoffs. “Ain’t no one ever fixed a bike with a phone. Can’t even open a beer with one.
“And no one treats ’em with respect, neither. Just disposable corporate slop, and everyone knows it’ll be in next year’s garbage. When kids do try to make ’em their own, they just buy the ugliest rhinestone covers. And what the hell is a ‘Popsocket’? Sounds like a crummy-ass breakfast cereal.”
He’s waiting for you to laugh. You force out a chuckle.
“When you have a doobie to light, your phone’s not gonna help you,” he says. “Or when you need to engage in some light arson? And what good is a phone when you’re tryna light the fuse on the dynamite you’ve planted in the embassy?”
He’s opening up his lighter now, sprinkling the fuel on his greasy shirt, his worn pants. “And let’s see a phone do this,” he mumbles, lighting the wick once more and dropping it into his lap.
As the flames engulf his body, his chair, you smile at your screen, knowing how many views this will get on TikTok. 🕹🌙🧸
⬅️ In case you missed it: Editing, Smile, Slenderman, and “how to not be trans”
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