The Dance of the Dummy

When I was fourteen, I had a favorite pair of pants.

They were baby blue bell bottoms, with just the right amount of fray on the cuffs, and were the definition of cool. I pounced on them when they came from the dryer, wearing them as often as possible. The memory of the last time I wore them is literally burned into my mind.

My Grandpaw and I drove to the store; this was an adventure in itself. Grandpaw never broke the speed limit; in fact he never even bent or scared it. Pulling up, we were greeted by the 1- so old geezers sitting out front, on Coke crates. Now, I’m one of those geezers and they no longer make Coke crates, I feel cheated.

Once inside I went to work trying to get a dollar. Instead he wanted to buy me a coke and put it on his ticket. I needed the dollar. I worked him in the store and continued to work him on the way back to the truck.

Finally he gave in and handed me the bill.

“I know you’re going to buy cigarettes. Don’t let your Grandmaw see 'em or she’ll skin us both and you best walk home.”

That was fine. I’d probably beat him back. I hurried inside and bought a pack of smokes, then stepped out and leaned against the building. I packed them as the old men stared. Why not, I was what cool is. I had on my coolest pants and my hair was longer than ever. I was cooler than those old guys ever dreamed of being, they should be staring.

Oh, did I mention the pants were tight, very tight? I put a cigarette in my mouth and then reached into my pocket for one of the 20 or so strike anywhere matches I’d liberated from the top of Grandmaw’s fridge. I’d been practicing and could strike them on my teeth, zipper or a fingernail — even more cool, right? The old men were silent, possibly anticipating some entertainment.

Pulling one from my pocket, I lit my smoke. It was the coolest, single move I’ve ever made. Puff one, my mind registered I hadn’t lit the match. Puff two, it registered that my leg was burning. Looking down, imagine my horror as black, blue and gray smoke rose from the fabric of my pants where only a pocket had been, a pocket which was fast melting into my leg. Two of the matches had rubbed together inside and even though they were starved for oxygen, the sulfur was doing its job and they were going to run their course.

I screamed and then started beating at my own leg. Jumping up and down, I furiously tried to slow the rapidly moving pain. I danced on as the old men started to laugh. This was the best show they’d seen in years. I knew what I had to do, so dancing and hopping around on one leg I pulled the pants off and threw them to the pavement. They took this opportunity and their newfound oxygen to burst into flames. I jumped on them and stomped until they were mostly out, right in front of all those men as they roared with laughter. Thank you Lord for those clean drawers my momma always talked about.

I then snatched them up before they were completely out and ran across the parking lot into the woods. When I got home, after five miles in the woods, I had a blister the size of a honeydew melon on my leg and pieces of melted polyester on my hands and in my leg. I stashed the pants in the burn barrel and spent the rest of my life trying to overcome the mental damage done by those dog gone matches.

If any of you doubt that smoking is evil, just consider what else would cause a 14-year-old to take his pants off and dance in front of a bunch of old men in public, in his drawers. Please keep this between us. It was embarrassing enough the first time.