The problem with Zippos

(This started out as a quick, short piece and somehow ended up with over 3300 words. So, I’ve posted the majority of it below the fold and no, you wont need any Kleenex. I promise. It’s unedited and published as typed out so my apologies beforehand.)

My Zippo ran out of flint yesterday, in early morning traffic, on my way to work, just after I’d slipped my first smoke of the day in between my lips, right after I’d taken a nice, big swig of my morning cafe cubano.

In the immortal words of Charlie Brown: Rats!

That’s the problem with Zippos. They are, undoubtedly, the best lighters ever, but unfortunately they require maintenance. They have to be periodically filled with fluid and periodically require a new flint.

So there I was in morning traffic frantically searching every nook and cranny of my Pathfinder for matches. Glove compartment, door compartments, little armrest compartment…nada. Rats!

I reach under the passenger seat while stopped at a light and – YES!!! – I pull out an old matchbook that had probably been hiding under there forever. I open it up and it has just one match. Uno.

They don’t make matches like they used to. Used to be you could light just about anything with one single, solitary match from your trusty matchbook. Nowadays, and just like the sole match in this matchbook, matches come with so little phosphorous on their ends that you can barely light a single match and need at least three to be able to light ’em up and bring them to your awaiting cigarette.

I get to a stop light and bring the cigarette back to my lips, roll up the car windows, carefully rip the last, lonely match from its matchbook and strike it. Nada.

I strike it again…Nada.

I strike it a third time and PPPPFFTTT! the match just firecrackers on me without a freaken flame. Rats!

Needless to say when I finally make it to the office I’m in an incredibly bad mood compounded by near withdrawal symptoms and nicotine fits.

Now, if you’ve ever owned Zippos you know it behooves you to have not only lighter fluid handy but a little pack of flints handy as well. You should have flints everywhere: at home, in your car, at the office, etc…

I could have sworn I had a pack of flints at the office so when I get to the office I start looking furiously for it. I rummage through drawers, look through shelves, empty out pen and pencil holders on my desk…searching for that ever illusive pack of flints. Nada.

I remember I have a box in my small office storage closet that I’d filled with miscellaneous stuff when I moved from one office to another some months back. I grab the box, place it on my work table and start, once again, searching for flints.

Mind you, I’ve yet to have my morning smoke so I’m not just desperate by now, but pretty darned pissed.

I rifle through everything in that box – old business card boxes filled with old business cards, plastic pen holders, architectural manufacturer knick knacks, old drafting materials and supplies, floppy disks, assorted computer cables and nada. There are no flints to be found! Rats!

Now I’m about to explode. I’m so angry at the moment that my ears are red hot. Just as I’m about to grab the box and slam it on the floor, there, in the back corner behind an old address book is an envelope with a hand written note and what appear to be a couple of pictures.

I slip the envelope out from its hiding place and find it’s an old letter sent to me back in October of 07, with it are two photographs from that year’s Cuba Nostalgia Convention. (I posted one of them here.) the Spanish handwritten note reads as follows:

Val,

These pictures are old but I had placed them somewhere and just today found them. That’s what happens when you accumulate Springs.

I go to Babalú every day but I dont know how to comment, yet I enjoy it and a times I copy some of the posts and writings to send them to friends in Atlanta that have no computers.

Hugs to your wife and we’ll see each other at Cuba Nostalgia next year!

“Airport” Aleida

I smile and my eyes well up at the same time. Coño. Aleida!

I met Aleida at our first Cuba Nostalgia Convention. We had a big sign in front of our booth that read “EMAIL FIDEL” and this miniscule lady strolled by, saw it and came right up to us asking us what the hell we thought we were doing sending letters to ese sinverguenza.

Of course, after I’d explained to her that she could send him her “exact” thoughts she went right up to one of the laptops and typed away. Poor fidel didnt know what hit him.

Aleida is electric. The woman is a bundle of raw energy. Don’t let her small frame or her age fool you, either. She has more zest and spark and life in her than many teenagers I’ve seen. And once she gets to know you, you are family.

She will regale you with piropos, dazzle you with little doble sentido remarks and even make you blush with her jokes. She is, truly, one of the happiest, most electrifying and contagious people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting and knowing. I love her. She’s like a Tia that, while I’ve only known her a few years, feels like she’s always been there.

That first year, after our first meeting she came back the next day of Cuba Nostalgia and brought us the most delicious, home made batch of camarones enchilados that any of us had ever had.

So I’m smiling now, thinking of Aleida and practically tasting the camarones. I’ve forgotten all about the Zippo, the flints, the matches and the ever frustrating morning quest for fire. I’m thinking of Aleida and her off color jokes, of how fast she talks and how I sometimes have to rerun what she’s just told me in my head. Or the day Maggie and I find her at the airport in her volunteer, flair laden uniform and she whisked us away and took us all over Miami International Airport, introducing us to pretty much everyone and making that particular travel experience just that much better. Coño. Aleida. I could really use her infectious joie de vivre right about now.

I make it a point to remember to try to find her telephone number today as I start picking up all the crap from the flintless box that was in the storage closet and, as I’m about to toss in a couple of floppies back in, there, in the corner of the box, right behind where Aleida’s letter was, is a fresh book of matches.

Coño. Aleida.

The story doesn’t end here, of course, because it’s still morning and for the rest of the day, I think about Aleida. And the camarones. And the jokes she would mail me. The jokes she would whisper to me. And her piropos.

For the rest of the day, every time I light a cigarette, I remember Aleida.

At around 2 o’clock I receive and email from the building department stating that some plans I had in for permit review are ready to be picked up. Finally, I think, something to do. So I grab the necessary paper work, my keys, cellphone, cigarettes and book of matches and head out of the office.

It’s a bit of a drive to the building department and there’s a bit of traffic and I know that I’ll probably have to stand in line for some time when I get there so I figure I should grab a quick smoke while I still can.

I grab a new cig, slip it between my lips and grab the trusty matchbook and open it. There’s only one puny headed match left. Rats!

I grab the match, yank it from the book, strike it and PPPPFFFTTT! another firecracker. Rats!

This just makes me laugh, though, because it’s in keeping with my day and because unbeknownst to her, Aleida has pretty much made my day. All day I’ve been hearing Aleida’s voice tell me “Ay, dejate de comer mierda, chico,” whenever some small thing has happened that made me pissed.

I get out of the building department at around 3:15 and decide that I’m not going to stop anywhere for matches, I’m going to find flints. And the only place I know of the sells them anywhere around me is my local Walgreens.

The plan is to “haul ass” to Walgreen’s before the cigarette withdrawals kick in once again. The reality, which I learn as I “haul ass” to Walgreen’s is that along with no flints, no matches, no fire and no cigarette for me, there would also be no “hauling ass” at the moment. After I’d committed myself to that particular route to the flint providing Walgreens, I realize that said route has not one, not two, but three school zones.

So what would ordinarily take me about ten minutes on any given day at any given time, at this smoke free particular moment takes me forty five grueling, withdrawal filled smokeless minutes. Rats!

I finally make it to Walgreens, park and head into the store. Like an idiot – or perhaps because I’ve been smoke free for almost three hours now and my judgement is clouded – I start walking around the store looking for “the aisle”. The aisle that once had pipes and pipe cleaners and all sorts of men’s accoutrements, including flints for your trusty windproof Zippo. Of course, said aisle does not exist today and I realize this only after I’ve walked the entire store, aisle by aisle.

Walgreens still carries flints though, except that now they are tucked away at the very front, hidden at the very bottom of a rack near the register that’s chock full of, yes, disposable cigarette lighters. For a moment, standing there flint pack in hand I think maybe I should buy a five pack of Bics. But, as the proud owner of a Zippo, I quickly disregard that ridiculous notion.

I stand in line for the cashier and when it’s my turn I figure I should get a fresh pack of cigs since I’already here.

“Would you like some matches with that,” the cashier asks in her heavily Cuban-accented English.

“No thanks,” I say. I’ve got a brand spanking new pack of flints and a Zippo in my pocket, lady. How dare you ask me such a question?

I get stuck at the traffic light at the exit of the parking lot and figure it’s as good a place as any to re-flint the old Zippo. I reach into my pocket, pull the Zippo out, open it and try to pull the lighter mechanism out. It’s stuck so I keep pulling but it keeps slipping from my fingers because of the fluid. I pull, it slips. I pull, it slips. I pull, it slips.

Naturally, I’m red hot ears pissed again so I grab the top of the lighter mechanism, clamp it as tight as I can with my fingers and give it a good, strong yank. It doesn’t slip this time. No. Of course not. There is something still clasped between my fingers. Its the flint wheel. I have now broken the lighting mechanism of my trusty Zippo, thus rendering it useless forever and to top it off, the traffic light goes to green and I’m at the front so before I can start screaming at the top of my lungs about my misfortune and how I need to get a despojo, cojones! I have to exit the damned parking lot.

By this time I’m pretty upset and pretty darned frustrated and, of course, still unable to smoke so I decide to call it a day and slog through traffic to get home. Cut my losses and pray that a meteor doesn’t hit my car on the way home.

I’m almost giddy when I get home because one way or the other, I know I’ll finally, finally, manage to have that smoke I’ve been wanting – needing – for four hours. I have other Zippos at home and I know there has to be a matchbook or two somewhere around the house.

Of course, when I get home I immediately run to the gas stove as I know I’ll undoubtedly spend another 45 minutes in desperate search for my other Zippos and said matchbooks to no avail. I. Can’t. Stand. It. Anymore.

I light up the gas stove and, again like an idiot with all reasoning having been usurped by the cigarette withdrawal demon, I slip a cig between my lips and bend over to light in on the gas stove. of course, I immediately realize what and incredibly stupid idea this was the second I smell burnt hair. I have just set my nose hairs and goatee on fire because I’m a rocket scientist moron.

I smoke the stove lit cigarette despite the pain and as soon as I finish I start looking for the damned Zippos and matches. I basically ruffle through every drawer in the house, every box in every closet, every little corner where there’s knick knacks and little decorative boxes and can’t find a damned lighter or even a half used book of freaken matches. I’m convinced they’re hiding from me on purpose or that someone has come into my home and taken all of my precious fire making materials and tools.

After a grueling half hour or so of yet another quest for fire that ended up in vain, I remember that I had some old lighters in a plastic box in the shed that I’d tried to sell at a garage sale. I make my way around the house to the shed, slide open the doors. The box- in keeping with today’s theme of making my life utterly miserable – is way in the back, behind the emergency generator, the air compressor, lawn mower, weed whacker assorted bins and boxes, atop of the Christmas items boxes. I have to remove all of the stuff in front of the Christmas boxes just to get at the small container with the – I hope – old lighters.

By the time I get to the container I’m already drenched in sweat. I’ve already emptied out half of my shed, I’ve already scoured every inch of the house, I’ve already set my face on fire and I am hoping and praying that there will be a lighter in that container because if there isn’t, I will most certainly explode and launch a traffic stopping two blocks away tirade.

I pry open the container top, and start sifting through the contents. There’s old watches in there, key chains full of keys, pen and pencils, change, a couple of broken Zippo lighters, a couple of those blinking Budweiser pins they used to give away at bars, but no sign of any li…wait. There’s one right there next to the old Leroy Drafting pen. An old fifties era vintage Ronson.

It has no flints but the flint wheel inst locked up. It has no lighter fluid but the wick seems to be in perfect shape. Yes! Finally.

I leave the contents of the shed outside and run to the kitchen where the new flints and lighter fluid await. I unscrew the flint screw, and set it down carefully. I grab the new pack of flints and as I bend it to have a flint pop out, I bend a bit too much and all the flints come out, bouncing all over the kitchen counter and floor.

Screw it I say and pick up one flint, slip it in the flint hole thingie and re-insert the flint screw and tighten it up. I flick the flint wheel and it sparks. Beautiful, wonderful sparks!!!! I will have fire any moment now.

The screw for the lighter fluid has other priorities tho, as it refuses to budge. I grab a butter knife from the kitchen drawer but it’s too thick for the screw.

Pissed and undaunted, I grab the lighter and the lighter fluid and head outside by the pool where I have my toolbox. I rummage through the toolbox and find a nice, thin Crafstman screwdriver and slide it into the very small, tiny lighter fluid screw on the vintage Ronson. It takes just a minor effort with the screwdriver to unstick the screw and I use my index finger to unscrew the thing all the way out.

It’s a really small screw so I set it inside a small cup next to the toolbox and grab the lighter fluid and fill the Ronson until it over spills. I’m getting close, finally, to having an actual fire making device so that I may light my cigarettes effortlessly and without issues.

I take the cup with screw and turn it upside down on my palm, the screw comes out and sits there right on my life line. I carefully and gingerly pinch the small thing between my thumb and index finger, set it carefully in the lighter fluid thingie hole and as I’m about to start turning the damn thing to screw it in, it slips and falls, bounces somewhere off the table and proceeds to make its way down to the floor.

The screw made its way down in absolute slow motion, as it traveled I swear I had flashbacks. The Zippo running out of flint in the morning. The shitty phosphorousless matches. The PPPFFFTTT’s. The nicotine fits. The three school zones. The broken Zippo at the traffic light. My face on fire. The fucking empty shed. My face contorted accordingly.

I drop down to the floor and begin searching for the small, eentsy weentsy, tiny runaway screw. I look everywhere. I hold my breath in case my breathing will move it out of place. I put my face on the ground and look for it sideways. I blow softly to move the little tiny flamboyan leaves scattered about. Run my fingers ever so delicately over the floor and table, seeking, searching for the teeny tiny lighter fluid lighter screw.

I spent almost a half hour looking for the damned thing and for like the fifth time my ears are red hot again. I want to scream. I want lightning to break the skies and hit me between the eyes. I want fire and brimstone; a tornado to whisk me up and relieve me of my misery. I go utterly and totally primeval. Roaring profanities at the top of my lungs.

“Why oh why am I SCHLEPROCK???? Why oh why cant ANYTHING GO RIGHT FOR ME TODAY???? Why oh why must I FEEL LIKE YANKING OUT MY HAIR WITH MY BARE HANDS???? Why oh why must it TAKE ME SO MUCH EFFORT TO LIGHT ONE – JUST ONE FUCKING CIGARETTE???”

I’m panting now and my heart is racing a mile a minute. I’m beyond angry, incredibly frustrated and every single muscle in my body is locked up and tense. I catch glimpse of the damned Ronsom lighter on the table by the pool and I grab it and squeeze the damned thing in my hand as hard as I can, when I realize that I cant crush the damned thing and just as I’m about to throw the thing with all my might into the damned canal out back, my cellphone rings.

I yank the cellphone from my pocket, click it on and put it to my ear. “HELLO?”

“Valentin,” a rather mousy voice on the phone asks and as the voice continues, I happen to look upon the table and there, lying quietly and innocently on the adjustable wrench is the little, tiny, teentsy weentsy lighter fluid lighter screw. “It’s Aleida. Did you hear the one about fidel castro and …”

I am now convinced that this petite, energetic woman that I met just a few years ago by chance is my guardian angel. Sent here to keep this brash, impatient, angry and frustrated man sane and composed and to make him laugh when he needs laughter the most.