Zel-kun’s Words

Before I had the misfortune of working for Wal-Mart, I managed to land a job as an engraver for Things Remembered, back when I was still in high school.  This job had me working in a technical capacity and did not truly expose me to the idiocy of the general public.  It also helped that most of the patrons were of upper-middle class or higher: managers, executive, doctors, lawyers.  This meant that while I usually didn’t need to worry about slipping and falling into a sticky vat of stupid, I still had to walk on eggs around these people, lest some arrogance get splashed on me.

Unlike stupid, which sticks to you and even after freeing yourself, you can still feel the sticky residue for the rest of the day (like maple syrup, really), arrogance is caustic.  Arrogance is like a small jar of acid each of these people carry around with them, and if you’re unfortunate enough, they’ll take the lid off and throw it in your face.  And while it sears your flesh, marring your once good looks as each individual skin cell writhes in agony, you must look at your attacker and smile.

To give a basic example, let’s say that there is a Zippo lighter being engraved.  Your typical, brushed-finish stainless steel lighter.  To engrave something, you take a diamond-tipped stylus and program the engraving into the computer.  You then execute the program and the machine goes to work.  Now, there’s many variables to consider: force, type of tip, passes, and material to be engraved.  Each of these walks the fine line between the customer leaving happy, or you going home looking like Two-face.

The engraving can be too bold, not bold enough, too deep, not deep enough (yes, there’s a difference between boldness and depth), too big, or too small.  The problem being is that all those factors are relative.  So even with what is, by the book, a perfect engraving, you still take the chance of having a very angry doctor scowling at you because he feels his pen’s engraving is a quarter of a millimeter too large.

Now, I tell you that story to tell you this story.  Whenever we engraved a lighter, it was common courtesy to fill it.  So I take the top of the lighter off, and squirt some of the fluid inside.  I reassemble the lighter and notice I got a little bit on my hand.  So I take a paper towel and dry it off.

Now… I have posted stupid stories here before.  But this is the first time I did the dumb deed myself.

You see, apparently wiping lighter fluid off one’s hand still leaves a residue.  This was information I did not know at the time.  This would very likely have been useful information to know.  I spin the wheel of the lighter, which grinds against the flint, sending sparks to the fluid-soaked wick.  The wick lights up as it should, and so does my hand.  My hand is now on fire.  In slow motion, I look at my hand encased in flame, glance at the customer who’s now looking at me in wide-eyed disbelief, close the lighter, and proceed to whip my hand about, hoping the wind would put the flame out.  To my luck (and likely the fact that there was only a residue of fluid which likely wouldn’t have burned for more than a couple seconds anyhow), the flame goes out.  The truly odd thing is the seemingly calm air I had about me at the time, like setting my hand on fire was an everyday occurance.

“Burn your hand often?” the customer asked once the flame was out.

“Only when I feel the need to make my day more exciting.” I respond.

Apparently, as I’ve learned since then, it is somewhat common practice for pyromaniacs and teenagers stoned out of their damn minds to douse their hands in lighter fluid and set it aflame, because the fluid will burn and not your hand.  And I thought I was dumb for setting my hand on fire.

Zel-kun out.