Farmer's Matches

He lit the match, held it in the vicinity of his cigar, and said, "I want to make one last point."

As he droned on, the flame flickered in the cool air, moving slowly down the match stick toward his index finger. He seemed oblivious, and continued speaking of sub-prime mortgages.

His attention never shifted to the flame, not once. He failed to monitor its descent down the match stick and appeared ill prepared for the pain that shot through him as the fire reached his flesh.

"Damn it," he yelled, and immediately sucked on his wounded finger.

He grabbed a second match from the small box in front of him, lit it and moved it toward the cigar, pausing again to speak.

"I will say, among your sub-prime loans that don’t default, a higher percentage are going to prepay early"

The match continued to burn and again he failed to keep track of it, allowing it, once more, to move toward his finger, sensing the heat only at the last second and quickly blowing it out.

"Ah, Crap," he said, and automatically moved to strike a third match. "Sorry about that, where was I."

I watched with fascination. I wanted to say, please, stop talking long enough to get the cigar lit, but decided he knew now that this is exactly what he had to do.

I was wrong.

"Escrow of taxes and insurance is not typically required in the sub-prime market as far as I know," he continued, drawing the very life out of the air, and leaving me with only two desires: Getting him to shut up long enough to light that cigar and using that brief down time to make my exit.

I told myself if the cigar didn't get lit this time, I was going to take the matches and light it for him.

"The rate on most of your 2/28s will often rise sharply at the two-year mark even if market rates don't change during those two years."

I leapt for the match, shook it free from his hand, put it out with my foot and grabbed the match box. He sat stunned as I lit another and ordered him to stick his cigar back in his mouth. This shut down the speech momentarily, and while I lit the cigar and he dutifully puffed away, I thanked him for the information and said I was late for a dinner engagement.

"Wait," he shouted, as I strode away. "Maybe you're one of those borrowers with poor credit who would want to take a 2/28 at a high rate and build your credit during that two year period."

"I'm not," I said. "I'm a guy picking up his wife from work. I don't understand anything you're saying."

It was a day where the fates had conspired to send yet another cheerless sap my way, as if punishing me for the times in life when I had been that very dullard.

I doubted I had ever been as banal as this clod, but knew I had scared people away by simply talking too much about matters that interested no one but me.

But driving home all I could think about was that cigar. When would it have ever been lit? How much longer would he have sat, making half-hearted efforts at smoking the thing?

A man who speaks while holding a lit match, a match he's paying no attention to, is not capable of delivering information a listener can hear. The focus is on the flame. Thoughts of "hurry, hurry, hurry" are voiced with the eyes. In my case, the fella didn't notice, and the moment was thus suspended interminably. There was no communication between us, just my steady, intense anxiety meeting his mindless nonchalance. It was a tortured dance and its memory occupied my mind all the way home, as my wife talked of her day, and the new job she was interviewing for.

When I got home I grabbed my own cigar from a drawer in a back room and went outside to light it. In the cool air I struck the match on the exterior brick wall of our house and watched it bring a warm glow to a black and white world.

I brought the flame to the cigar, but paused briefly to savor the sight. The soothing orange flicker danced fitfully, seemingly alive, even blissful. I imagined I could feel its warmth deep inside my body, that it was strong enough to steal me from the December chill and comfort me. I watched until it burned out, and then, in that meditative state, lit another, doing the same with that one. I lit more than 12 before finally returning to the original task.

Once the cigar was lit and I was seated on my front stoop enjoying the rich flavor of earth's sacred plant, I found myself laughing, laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Why couldn't I have just enjoyed the man's matches. My God, they were all so  beautiful.