Playing with Fire

In this Quickie, we share a fun encounter I had while getting laser hair removal. Something funny is bound to happen when I recall the first place I ever smelled burnt hair and open my mouth before realising it might be a bit abnormal.

"You've ... never played with fireballs?"

It took everything in me not to react beyond simply saying the words. I have been through this with so many things, and it was almost always the same. An utterly ordinary occurrence from my youth was all too utterly extraordinary to other people. Sometimes it was my upbringing. Sometimes it was the autism. This time, I had to suppose it was the fact I was raised in the Country. Like, way back in the woods, one flashing red light in the whole town, everybody knows everybody, capital C. Country.

When I say that, most people think I mean like small city life. But no, that's Carthage. Or Longview. Or Marshall. Or Henderson. Or Kilgore. I grew up in Tatum, by-god, Texas. A thousand people across about a twenty mile stretch, so far as the post office was concerned. Did we have churches and a grocery store and a school? Yeah! Definitely. The ~Brookshire's~ ~Brookshire Brothers~ ~B&B Foods~ Brookshire Brothers was a popping spot in the evening after school let out, and being right across from the school made it all too convenient. Hells, we even had a Dairy Queen, which was a common hookie dive because it was separated from the school by nothing more than an easily circumnavigated fence.

But when I say that a town like that is still the Country, I mean that almost 30% of the school got out for county fairs, animal shows, and other very Country events. I mean that football is the primary way that anyone ever gets the hells out of that town. I mean that every time I walked home from school (which was a lot), I got stopped by no fewer than three people (at least one cop) who knew me as "you're one of Valerie's kids, right?" so that they could make sure I got home safely. Eventually it got to the point where I knew the routes to take to avoid those nosey folks, but it wasn't a perfect solution.

Alas, I digress.

Probably the best metric I have for how Country the town of Tatum, by-god, Texas, is lives in the example of the school Rodeo. Not a true rodeo, sure, but still not not a rodeo. The primary school in Tatum used to have special Field Days where about half the school day was spent doing organised recess. And occasionally, those Field Days were themed. Enter the Rodeo. I milked a goat. I picked up and moved hay bales. I did very Country things. And apparently, this isn't common practice outside of Country towns. Then again, this one is something I might have hallucinated. Who the hells knows anymore.

-----

Now, genuinely, I understand the fireball story is almost beyond Country. I know that because the first time I told someone else from my hometown about it, they gave me the same look I was getting in this moment. But I guess I had forgotten – because this is the first time it has come up in quite a while – that people don't tend to hurl literal flaming balls at each other as a super fun pastime.

No. That was just ... me I guess.

-----

"Okay. Allow me to explain ... or at least try." I begin the story knowing full-well that what follows isn't exactly a flattering view of Country folk.

"Fireballs begin," I shake my head slightly, "as burlap sacks or as hemp rope or as jute cord. It depends on what you have on hand. But you start out by cutting it into strips or semi-uniform lengths or other easily bundled units."

"I don't like where this is going," she says, but she's enthralled already due to the set up.

"You wrap those strips or whatever up into a ball similar to what you do with rubber bands and make sure it's as tight as possible. Once you have a nice solid but slightly squishable ball, you soak it in kerosene."

"Oh no."

"Yeah ... it's a whole thing. Once the balls have soaked long enough, you light them on fire and toss em around, basically playing catch with fire."

"Oh."

"And as you might imagine, that singes off all the hair on your hands and forearms. And if you're not careful, your legs. And if you're unlucky, your head/face. But either way, you end up smelling like smoke, kerosene, and burnt hair."

"I can imagine."

"It turns out that it's not super common outside my hometown, but it happens. The man who introduced me to this pastime," I casually leave out that he was the scout leader for Boy Scout Troop 419 or that this was happening at a scout event, "apparently did this with his son on a regular basis. His kid was like 8 throwing literal balls of fire around with 14 to 17 year-olds."

"Wow."

"So yeah. I'm not exactly a city girl."

We laughed awkwardly about it, then she gently set the laser against my face and continued zapping the hairs there and bringing that familiar scent of burning follicles to my nose.