Fire

 I got fired from my job today. I think it could be one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. The sentencing felt like a bullet fired into my brain at exactly 10:36 this morning. The bastards had wanted me to do a whole hour and a half of work before they pulled the trigger, effectively firing the final blow. Luckily for me, I had failed to get to work on time this morning, like I did most mornings. Just as well really. 

This morning in particular, it was because I had almost set fire to my kitchen trying to make toast for breakfast. I’d been meaning to get a new toaster for weeks now, but the old one had belonged to my flatmate when she’d still been living (there), and I hadn’t been able to find one yet that I thought she would have approved of. After filling the kitchen with black smoke, I’d cracked open a window and run out of the door at 8:45, a piece of untoasted bread crammed in my mouth and the fear of a stroke—mostly because of the smell—on my mind as I jammed the key into the lock and legged it down the stairs two at a time. The building’s elevator was still broken, obviously. 

After pelting it down the street to the nearest Metro station, there was an issue with the ticket machine. Out of order. Once I made it down to the platform, there was a delay on my line—someone had thrown themselves onto the tracks. Whilst enduring, with silent incredulity, the tuts of “how inconsiderate” and, “I have a meeting I’m going to be late for,” I noticed a young girl, leant against one of the only free poles for support and rolling a cigarette. She didn’t seem annoyed, like I was, at the insensitive comments made by the smartly-dressed bodies around us, and was instead nodding her head to whatever sounds were coming through the huge headphones she was wearing. She was frowning in concentration as she tried to tuck the corner of the paper around the filter, just right so that she could roll it up into a thin cylinder. 

Once she’d finished rolling, she tucked her tobacco back in her bag and shifted her headphones slightly to tuck the cigarette in just beside her right temple. For the millisecond that her ear was liberated from the speaker, she seemed to contemplate removing the headset completely. But upon hearing snatches of the conversation around us, she must have decided against it. I can’t say I blamed her. This did mean, though, that as well as the sound of the imbeciles around us, she had also blocked out the faintest clatter, as her lighter dropped out of the unzipped back pocket of her backpack and onto the floor of the moving Metro. No one else seemed to hear it either, whether because of the screech of the Metro lines, the enclosure of their own oral soundscapes, or the noise of their own complaints. 

As the Metro eventually shuddered to a temporary halt at my stop, I ducked down quickly and retrieved the small metal object. I meant to give it back to her. It seemed like she would need it as soon as she got outside into the fresh air. It was a vintage silver zippo, expensive maybe, or perhaps just of sentimental value, and I found myself subconsciously running my thumb along the smooth metal as I lost sight of the girl in the crowd disembarking from the carriage. Turning the lighter over in my hand, I was distracted by the little drawing of a flame painted onto one side in nail varnish, in different shades of red, orange and yellow. There was even a little dab of blue at the end of some of the tendrils, to make the flames look as if they were flickering, as if mimicking the mini bonfire that I could enrage at the top of the lighter. I stood for a moment outside of the station, mesmerised by the flame and by the little drawing, and forgetting all about the girl to whom it had belonged. Then I remembered I needed to get to work. 

After the meeting with my boss, I started boxing up the things in my office. I’d been reminded of the lighter sitting in my pocket only when he’d asked if I wanted to go out for a cigarette. No, I told him blankly, I don’t want to smoke with you. He’d held his arms up in mock defence and I’d resisted reciprocating his reaction with a polite smile, the sort I’d have given if I was joking. I hadn’t been joking, and I saw no reason to pretend otherwise, especially not now that I didn’t work for him anymore. He’d simply shrugged and headed out, telling me that I could stay for the rest of the day if I wanted to, but to make sure I said goodbye before I left if I was planning on heading straight out. 

Fishing it out of my pocket now, I again traced the shape of the nail varnish flames, catching my thumb slightly on the lip of the lighter as I flicked open the top. I watched as the sparks danced in a miniature display, revelling in the prohibition of my small act of defiance. It wasn’t the 90s anymore, I’d been told on numerous occasions in this job. So no more smoking in the workplace. Shame. I’d always thought the niccy rush had made me much more productive. I finished packing up the rest of my boxes, stapler, egg timer, novelty bobble head of Elvis Presley, the end of a half eaten protein bar I’d obviously forgotten about some weeks ago. Post-its, a calculator I’d never used, my monitor, my keyboard—not mine but what was the worst thing they could do, fire me? And a mug that read “world’s best boss”. Also not mine, obviously. 

As I packed the last few things into my two small cardboard boxes, I reread over the titles my flatmate had given them when I’d first gotten the job, to cheer me up on my first day. All the clouds that Kate Bush busted, carry with care, read the first. And, this contains all of the silicone from inside Dolly Parton, life from the knees. I think it was supposed to say lift, but when she’d first written on the boxes, I’d found it funnier to imagine blowing Dolly Parton up like a balloon, only from the knees up. I taped the boxes shut and flicked the lighter open once again, placing it at the bottom of the waste paper basket just below my desk, and out of sight of the floor length windows, meant to encourage an open attitude between colleagues. The effect was more one of voyeuristic panopticism, mostly owing to the petty workplace power dynamics, and the imposition not just of glass ceilings but of whole glass cases around the predominantly female office workers.  

As the scrap pieces of paper started to smoke and blacken in my wastepaper basket, becoming ugly and shrivelled, I life-d from the knees and, without making a commotion, made to leave, not bothering to say goodbye to anyone before I left. After six years behind the same desk, there’d been so many new starters recently there was barely anyone left to say goodbye to. As I clicked my door shut behind me, no one made to look up from their desks. Before I moved further, I made sure my ex-boss was back at his desk, pretending to look at spreadsheets or whatever he did to pass the day and justify his position of authority over us. He was. 

I strolled slowly towards the elevator, keeping my shoulders back and my eyes forward. I was beginning to feel like maybe I’d just done a really stupid thing, but the thought of my  flatmate cheering me on in the back of my mind told me to keep going forwards, and to just make it out of the building. No longer your life, no longer your problem, I could almost hear her say in my head. 

The company would have no proof on CCTV, our boss had made sure that had been disabled for years. I knew because if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have gotten away with half of the things he’d done when he asked the young interns to stay late, my flatmate amongst them. That had happened more than a year ago now.

Fuck him, I thought to myself as I calmly pressed the button for the elevator and waited, my back still to the rest of the office and all of the people whom I didn’t know, and would never have to face again. The doors slid open and I stepped into the elevator, turning around to face the first signs of panic in the workplace as people began to notice the smell of burning. The exhibitionist layout of the office now provided a gratifying artistic quality to the rising smoke which was seeping out of the cubicle I’d just left behind, I thought to myself, as the doors closed in front of me. 

As I arrived to the ground floor and made for the exit for the last time, I nodded my head at Larry, the security guard who’d been here even longer than I had, and who had always seemed pleased to see me, although our conversation had never gotten past a smile and some small talk about the weather. Bit grim today, he offered kindly. I nodded. Still, I said, I’d get out if I were you. No time like the present and all that. 

Eventually pushing through the revolving door that separated the office block from the city, the grey sky was just beginning to fill with rain as I heard the sound of a fire alarm, and the spray of sprinklers behind me. Have a nice day Larry, I said, turning back to him as I stepped out into the day. Get out while you can. As he took in my advice, he was poised mid-rotation in the doorway. Without looking to see which option he chose, I walked away, as the life I’d left behind went up in smoke.