Jesse Ball - How to Set a Fire and Why

She is cheerful, though, so after a few minutes, she asked if I wanted to get some air, and I said yes, and we went out and down the street. Most people would be pretty stressed out about having to go somewhere with my aunt, because she looks pretty weird. She wears a hat that—let’s just say, I have no idea where she got this hat. She has a turquoise coat and she wears those huge black sunglasses that can cover other glasses, but since she doesn’t have other glasses, I’m not sure why she does it.

I should say, I was sad once when I went with her to a restaurant and we saw a girl from Parkson. It was a girl who I thought was smart and maybe could be my friend, but once she saw my aunt, I knew it wouldn’t happen. I felt bad about it—this was the combination:

part of me felt angry at my aunt for causing it;

part of me felt awful that I wouldn’t get this friend;

part of me felt okay because obviously the girl was terrible if she cared so much about what other people think that she would disqualify me on the basis of my aunt.

The whole thing was even worse because it was supposed to be a celebration. I had this problem for a while where I couldn’t stop crying, so I was out of school for two months and just crying all the time. It made me get brutal headaches. This was the first two months that I lived with my aunt, after the thing happened. So, at the end of that time, when a week or two passed, and I wasn’t crying anymore, my aunt said we should celebrate. Even though we couldn’t afford to, she knew it was the right thing to do—so we went to a restaurant. That’s when this happened, which made me feel even worse. Because my aunt is great. Fuck anybody who doesn’t approve of her!

Of course—I expect that I will look as strange to people as my aunt does if I live as long as she has. I think back then it looked to me that there was a chance I would be able to go undetected—that I could pass through society without being noticed. Since I realize now that people are against me anyway, it is easier for me to stomach having people think my aunt is a freak.

So, ultimately, I can’t take credit for being okay now with my aunt’s weirdness, is what I’m saying. I’ve just accepted that we’re painted with the same brush.

We walked down to the park. There were no pigeons. I don’t know where they had gone to, but when we tossed some bread on the ground, there were many pigeons. My theory is—they hide inside the park benches and wait.

If you want to say, Lucia, there is no inside of the park benches, I won’t argue with you. But, then you have to say where the pigeons come from.

After that, we read—I read a book about cremation in China. My aunt read Faust in German. The hot-dog guy gave us two hot dogs because he felt bad for us when my aunt had to pay for the one hot dog with change.

I want to add about my aunt that she does everything with an immense amount of dignity—so it isn’t that she really looks like a weirdo. It is just that people have so little acumen these days—they don’t even know what dignity looks like. Or, a few do. Like the hot-dog guy. He was moved by her display.

Tomorrow I will go to the Home to visit my mom again. I will wear a raincoat and I will take the number 12 bus all the way down Ranstall Avenue and change to the number 8 at Bergen. While I am riding the bus, I will read more in my book about Chinese cremation. While I am reading that book, someone will try to talk to me. I will grunt and indicate that I am reading a book. When I get to Stillwell, I will get off the bus. No one else will get off it because no one else will be on it at that point. I will walk half a mile to the entrance, and then half a mile past the gates to the main building. At the main building, I will get a guest pass and I will be escorted to my mother’s room. She will not be in the room. I will then be escorted to the fish pond. She will be sitting in a rocking chair next to the fish pond. She will be wearing a medical gown. Her hair will be in a ponytail (she never wore it in a ponytail). I will approach her and speak to her. She will once again fail to recognize me. I will sit with her for a while until it becomes clear that it isn’t doing anyone any good. Then, I will go back and hand my pass in. I will walk back down the drive. I will walk to the bus stop. I will get on the number 8 bus. I will take the number 8 bus past Ranstall past Wickham, past Arbor, to Twelfth. There I will get out. I will go into the bowling alley, Four Quarter Lanes, and I will sit at the bar and my friend Helen will pour me a drink. This time I will try to drink it a little slower. Probably, I will drink a glass of water first. (If I am hungry or thirsty and someone gives me a beer or a mixed drink, I will almost always drink it too fast, or faster than I should.)

I woke up and made my aunt breakfast. That was—a poached egg. My mom showed me once how to do it. It requires a bit of a skillful maneuver. There was a little left of a fancy pepper, so I used it for her egg and ground it over the plate. The pepper ground up really beautifully. When I get to use nice things, I always think: nice things are so nice. But, like everything else—you get used to them and they vanish, unless like me you never get them, or only rarely.

She was really happy about the egg. When I got to her with it, she was already sitting up, since she slept in the chair, so it was just a matter of her opening her eyes and being happy.

I had my raincoat on, and she knew where I was going.

Later, chief! she said. It was a joke from an old TV show that aired fifty years ago. I always laugh and enjoy pretending to enjoy the joke, even though I don’t know what it is.

Later, I said.

I took the number 12 to the 8. I read my book. Three people tried to talk to me separately. I got rid of them by doing nothing. I walked up the drive to the main building. The girl was there, and she gave me a weird look along with the pass. The orderly came, same guy as before, and he was happy to see me. I could tell even though he acted like it was nothing at all. He said he had read the book. Did he like it? He said some of the stories were good but some were very bad. I said this is true—this is the way it is with that book. We went down to the fish pond straightaway, which was new. When he left he patted me on the shoulder, where the raincoat had fallen off. Which meant, he touched my shoulder, and I could feel his hand there while I sat looking at my mom. She was looking at the pond.

She does this thing where she is looking at the pond, and then for no reason she wants to go closer, so she gets out of her chair and leans over the pond, looking down over it. Then she shakes her head a bunch and mutters something and goes back to the chair. If you wait long enough, she will always do this. I think about the visit in terms of how many cycles I stay for. Once, I stayed for six cycles of the head-shaking. If I try to touch her, she says, no no no no no no nononononononononono.

When that happens, I always cry. It is really stupid, and it breaks the rules because it is not something I am proud of. But, so far I have not been able to stop it.

My mom’s gown is not always tied properly, so when she goes to look in the pool, her underwear is pretty visible. That is sometimes the occasion for the touching—I’m just trying to fix the gown so it covers her. She really doesn’t like it, though.

I didn’t want you to think I was trying to give her a hug or kiss her. I know that she doesn’t want that—and I don’t either, since she isn’t actually anyone I know, and I’m not anyone that she knows.