seraphim

Thirty or forty cigarette butts tumble into the trashcan, some of them stuck together by the melted tar that bled through the paper. One of these cigarette butts, the most recently smoked one, had just a tiny bit of cherry left burning as the ashtray was emptied into the can. The remnant of the cherry, this speck of flame, touches a paper towel someone used to wipe excess fluid from his windshield. The corner of it wasn’t wet, so the spark hits this and burns a ring through it and some of the filters from the other cigarettes are starting to catch on fire as well.

The filters, the paper towel, and even wrappers and paper cups are starting to contribute to the flame until it’s hot enough to cause blurry heat lines to someone looking at the trash can. This is just a few seconds before the whole inside of the can goes aflame.

The fumes from the gasoline pump right next to the can are ignited into an instantaneous fireball that engulfs first that pump and then the others and then the convenience store that serves as an island between all of them. One clerk and two resting motorists are torched in such a complete manner that even if they survive the explosion they will die from infection from lack of skin within two days. One other person is burned, but will survive.

It wasn’t even a terrorist attack, just one tiny instance of someone me being thoughtless. This scenario is by no means a fact, but it’s something that keeps playing over and over again in my mind as I speed down this unlit road that lets these three or four farmers get home and serves as a good place for high school potheads to toke up.

I haven’t slept in a few days, and I’ve noticed that I’m starting to get paranoid. I really did empty my ashtray at the last gas station just a few minutes ago, and I only just realized that the very last cigarette might not have been out all the way. The rest of the story writes itself in my mind.

Let’s just assume, worst-case scenario, that my tiny cigarette butt exploded a gas station. The firemen will be able to determine where the fire started, and a search of credit cards used before the explosion will bring my name to the police about ten minutes after they start their investigation. Surveillance tapes from gas stations in the vicinity will place me in the area at the time of the incident, and my life will pretty much end right there.

From a moral standpoint, does that make me a killer? Three people are potentially dead due to my actions, but it was an unintentional mistake. There are equal, if not greater odds in favor of no fires, explosions, or deaths, but my actions remain the same. How can I be karmically persecuted for something based more on my luck than my intent?

I could end this debate by turning around and going back to the gas station to see whether it’s surrounded by ambulances and fire trucks or not. But once I get back to the scene and realize what I’ve done, that makes my conscience guilty. If I never go back there and never learn what happened, my conscience is safe, at least from a physics standpoint.
Why physics, you ask? It has to do with the Uncertainty Principle, which states that you can never know a particle’s velocity and location. If you get a definite measure of one, you lose the chance to know about the other. One physicist likened it to leaving a cat in a box with a poisoned mouse carcass. After one second, you can be pretty sure the cat is still alive, but four hours later it’s impossible to know if the cat is still alive, unless you open the box. But once you open the box you cease to be a scientist and become just another sadistic bastard who killed a cat in the name of science.

But I’m not a sadistic bastard yet.

Before you crucify me, you should understand the situation I’m in. I was negligent because I haven’t slept in two days, and I haven’t slept in two days because of my condition.

What I have is a psychological bladder condition. It’s a bladder condition because I have to pee every seven or eight minutes. It’s psychological because it only affects me when I’m trying to sleep. During the day I can go for normal spans of time without having to urinate.

You see, most people can’t sleep if they really have to pee. The difference with me is that I can’t sleep if I can pee at all. Even like four drops. I can’t fall asleep unless my bladder is 100 percent empty of all liquid, and any nurse or doctor will tell you that this is a near impossibility because your body produces urine at a regular rate, even if you haven’t had anything to drink since five or six hours before that.

I think I’m affected by this thing because of how rational I am. I’m just about to fall asleep when I convince myself that one more trip to the bathroom will save me from having to get up in the middle of the night, and thus give me a longer chunk of uninterrupted sleep in exchange for less than a minute of inconvenience. The problem is that this same argument takes place in my head about two dozen times every night, often leaving me with just an hour or two of that perfect, uninterrupted sleep I was so desperate to get.

Here’s a summary of the logic so far: I can’t sleep because of the peeing thing, I can’t concentrate because I have no sleep, I dropped a lit cigarette into a trash can next to a gas pump because I was spacing out, and now I’m a murderer. Three people are dead (and one is very, very wounded) all because I pee too much.

But all of that is in the past. The present is what matters because it’s the only thing I can control. I have three real options: the first is to just live my life as if nothing happened and feign ignorance, the second is to go back and find out whether or not I’m a murderer, and the third is to assume I am a murderer and begin my escape before the police catch me.

The first one is unappealing because of the uncertainty involved. I’d feel dumb if I went straight home and got arrested on the spot, all because I didn’t want to waste a few minutes to check out a pile of smoldering skin and burnt hair. Even if nothing happened, just the speculation would drive me mad after a while. So that option’s out.

The third option is just like the first, save that it takes place on a longer timeline that also eventually ends in my capture and the forced loss of my anal virginity by big, angry, balding inmates in some kind of a prison.

I really have no choice but to go back and find out for sure.

I figure that either way, this is my best choice-of-action. If nothing happened and I’m just being paranoid, this will provide me with peace of mind. If it turns out the place did in fact explode in a flaming balloon of fiery death, I can be that much farther ahead of the police who will be pursuing me and still have the option of punching my ticket before they catch me, if it comes to that.

But it’s clear to me that I can’t just drive right by. The chances of someone pointing out my car are too great and I’d like to avoid a car chase if I can. So I think what I’m going to do is park at the other side of this huge field and hike until I can confirm my kills visually, then double back to my car and make my escape.

I see a good spot up here on the right, a gravel lot next to this gravel road. The gas station should be about a mile away, and I can follow the halo of light leading to the interstate to know which direction to go.

Change jingles in my pants pockets, and I scan the ground to avoid stepping in deep mud. This field is composed of wild grass and the corpses of long-dead willow trees. Every snap of every twig makes me think of prowling wild dogs and slimy, slippery snakes. I burp and taste cigarettes and the faint aftertaste of peanut butter from that sandwich I had a few hours ago. A cigarette doesn’t seem like such a bad idea right now, so I spark one up and keep pushing this tall grass out of my way.

When you’re faced with a moment that has the potential to be life-altering, the stars seem bigger. The purple-blueness of the sky seems to be unfazed by my actions. The lifespan of this galaxy won’t be changed a bit by what I’ve done down here. The planets will keep on spinning. Only me and my victims and our families will be changed forever by what I’ve done, if it turns out I’ve done anything at all.

And there it is, in the distance. As for the police flashers and spinning ambulance lights, there are none. An SUV is parked by the pay phone as the driver makes a call. A coupe turns left out of the parking lot. I breathe a gulp of air sweetened with relief.

I think I must be the luckiest kid in the world. I can live my life free of the stigma of unintentional murder. I really am the luckiest kid in the world—this is the third gas station I haven’t burned down this week.
 

(c) 2005 j baugher