Fire is a punk I met on the sidewalk once. I was walking my aunt�s dog around her condo�s sprawl and I saw this guy, this tall guy around sixteen with a blue fan of hair straightened and stiffened with gel. His big heavy boots stopped as he knelt to pet the dog, and his eyes were soft and blue-green.
�Hey,� said he. He asked the dog�s name, and I told him, creating a hole in the flow of the conversations, (if those few words made up a conversation) so I asked what his name was. He swept a bow.
�Most call my Pretentious Follower of A Long Dead Fashion Trend, but I also go by Fire.� I told him that I was Trina, and he said �Charmed� like a drag queen, and then, �You don�t go to Middlebury, do you?� I said no.
We walked like this for a time, waiting unromantically for the dog to poop. We talked about his school and favorite bands, and I scrounged what little I could recall about the Sex Pistols from the back of my brain.
At the end of our walk, he asked for my cell number, so I took his as just desserts. We�ve been talking ever since�he�s probably one of the most interesting people I know. At first, Tim was kind of jealous, but I don�t think I could get within kissing distance of Fire: he dislikes toothbrushes with a deep passion and has an aluminum tongue stud.
The phone rings, twice and Fire�s normally laconic voice comes on, hurriedly.
�You OK?�
I�m not, and remark as much. Suddenly, I blurt. �Can you come and get me?�
There is a pause. �I�m in Shop, so I can come. Where to?�
I choke out that I�m at the river. I don�t know why I�m so upset. He gets off the line, gratefully.
A few weeks ago, he came down and we went for a walk, taking silly pictures of each other. Fire has high cheekbones and an angular, David-Bowie-ish face, a face well-suited to moody film noir pictures. My face is heart-shaped and sort of boring, a face well-suited to strategic eyeliner placement. I�ve been compared favorable to a pixie, and unfavorably to Bj�rk,
We wound up in this little spot on the �beach� with a tree limb that zooms dangerously over the water. There are pebbles and bits of glass mixing on the ground, making it look enchanted and friendly. I am hiding from the junkies on the limb when Fire pulls up, gallantly.
�If you were built more like Tim,� I muse, �You could just scoop me up and place me gently in the backseat.�
�If I were built more like Tim,� he growls, extending his hand to help me down, �You would be somewhere over there, making a loud splash.�
My favorite of his noisy bands is on, Exene is wailing, and Fire is saying that he bets I could use a day off. I bitch about Alison and he listens patiently.
�Hey,� says he. �Want to come to my school for a while? I kind of have a test in an hour.�
I think about it.
�Yes.� I say.