I threw the white lighter on the coarse red carpeting. He should know better, I thought. "Why did you do that," he asked. I couldn't believe that such a seasoned smoker would still be wielding a white lighter, and I am sure my face showed my astonishment. "Give it back," said Kip, a look of contempt grew over his weathered face, a permanent wrinkle in the making on his forehead and by his eyes. It was like he spent much of his childhood squinting in the sun.
"I can't believe you'd still be using that stupid white lighter. You should know better. It's bad luck." I downed what was left of my beer and took a long drag of my cigarette. It was Cora's turn to buy rounds. Kip just stared at me. His eyes became more piercing as the second hand ticked on some alcohol-related neon clock that shone through the smoky din of the bar. Cora slowly rose and left before she became involved in the banter between Kip and me.
"Pieter," he said, "I'm not kidding around. Give it back." I looked past him, into the bar and saw that Dennis had finally shown up. "Cora's at the bar," Kip said. His gaze never left my eyes, no matter how much I looked away. Dennis nodded and ditched his affects. He pivoted on his left and headed towards his entrance. He looked briefly at the lighter, and then towards me. I shook my head no as he exited. "Give it back," Kip's blonde hair beginning to moisten with sweat, like a ball of golden yarn in a transparent washing machine. This was nothing unusual; he always sweats when he gets mad. We were both too stubborn to have this last for a simple two minutes, and we were not close enough to arrive at a drunken resolution.
We stared intently at each other for a few minutes. Neither of us would back down. Some 90’s alternative rock song (probably the Gin Blossoms or Better than Ezra) began playing on the jukebox. The simple melody and melodic lyrics blended seamlessly with the weekday bar ruckus as I flinched. A hand lay on my shoulder, the soft touch of interruption that broke my focus on Kip. A woman apologized; asking if I had dropped the lighter, no longer resting on its crimson grave of beer stains and cigarette ash. “That’s mine!” Kip said, quickly fidgeting in his seat to better access the trinket she was holding. I snatch the lighter before he has a chance, and with a quick thank you, I stuffed it into my pocket. She looked at each of us, slightly confused, and regressed to rejoin her group of thirty-somethings. When she left my line of sight, I spiked the lighter back onto the ground as if I had just scored the winning touchdown in some farcical football game.
“No,” I said. My eyes did not meet Kip’s as I said this. I simply reached behind him for my tattered brown sport coat, which was resting on the back of an unoccupied chair. I searched the deep pockets for something that would ease his anger. On the table in front of him, I placed an unreliable clear-blue lighter: the kind that would be acquired by turning a quarter through a mechanism in front of a grocery store, if lighters were accessible this way.
“What the fuck is this?!” His face grew angrier by the second. I scrounged around my dirty blue-jeans pockets for my pack of Marlboro Reds and removed one; two remained. I pulled in the sweet smoke, igniting the tip of my cigarette with the flame of my silver Zippo. I glanced towards Kip and moved the box closer to him and offered my fire. He slowly rose from his chair, ignored my donation of light and fire. He walked past me, my chair tipped foreword as he attempted to squeeze between my back and the wall. I saw him walking towards the lighter, determined to reclaim the unlucky trinket I liberated. My foot flew swiftly and landed atop the torch. He collapsed into the chair opposite to me and rested his head in the crevice his bent elbow made. His camouflage patterned sleeve contrasted against the cool black table and lime green ashtray. “Pieter,” he mumbled through his arm. I raised my head as to ask what, regardless of the fact that he could not see me in his current position. “Why won’t you just give it back?”
I set my cigarette on the smooth groove within the rounded ashtray and looked intently. I chose my words wisely. “Do you know why white lighters are bad luck?” He shook his head back and forth in his elbow, his ears brushing on each of his sleeves, relaying back and forth. “It originated in Vietnam. When the soldiers were in trenches, using a white lighter would make them more visible than they already were by lighting the damn cigarette. It’s the same as not lighting more than two cigarettes with the same flame. Basically, get over it,” I said. “I gave you a replacement. Plus, it’s not like you don’t have fifty lighters in your apartment: none of which, I might add, are white.” His head shifted as he reached into his Dockers pocket, grabbing his silver cigarette case: well worn from over a year of use. He took the last one and slammed the case shut, making a sound like a chime piercing through the slowly raising volume of the bar. After he raised the cigarette to his lips, he grasped the lighter I had exchanged for his. After six failed attempt, he finally ignited his cigarette in a certain self-defeat I knew would not last. He leaned back into his chair and looked on the ground, searching casually for the lighter, which was still buried by my foot.
Cora returned with 3 bottles of beer and distributed them among the group. Dennis sat down and began drinking the orange juice and vodka he started every Tuesday night with. I excused myself, heading towards the bathroom. Before I stood, I covertly reached towards the ground and scooped up the white lighter. I had plans for it. “I’ll be right back. Anybody want anything else?” An empty gesture, we had just received Cora’s nightly contribution to our friendship. “Besides you, Kip,” added before he had a chance to ask for his lighter.
I headed towards the bathroom. I went into the stall and dropped the lighter, making a plunk into the dirty toilet. I flushed and watched the lighter swirl out of existence, never to be seen again. I smiled to myself. I drained a purely unlucky practice from my naïve friend. I returned to the table and found Kip on all fours. He hunted for his fallen lighter: I returned to the table and downed my beer. It was bad luck to have that lighter; he is down one.
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