Wednesday Submission

I won't be in class Wednesday to submit my story, so here it is now.

Jason Conde
18 June 2008
English 410
Prof. Crowder

Boss

Boss's Zippo is missing. "It was stolen, Jun," Boss says while I empty the trash can. The Zippo once belonged to Boss's brother, who died in Vietnam just after he had the bust of a mustang engraved on one side.
"Someone stole it, Boss?" I ask as I double-line the trash can.
"Well, how else would it be lost. You think I'd misplace it?"
"No, Boss."
"Then how would it be lost?"
"You're right, Boss. I just didn't think of it." I laugh nervously as he dusts the electrical wires behind the desk. It's important for Boss that I take the dusting seriously. Boss once said, "Dust is like kindling. All you need is a spark and the whole thing burns."

That night Evelyn says, "Boy wants to know if you can pull strings with Boss so he can move to the cafeteria." Boy is Evelyn's godson, the first born of her best friend. Boy bumbles. He is scrawny and quiet. He only likes to smoke cigarettes and look at things. I like him. He's a good boy. He sees things simply. He's been living like a priest in the garage for a few years, sending his wages to his wife, who cares for his mother and his daughter back home.
"What's wrong at Records?" I ask.
"Boy thinks his boss doesn't like him. Talks behind Boy's back because he smokes."
"Because he smokes a pack a shift."
"I'm not defending him," she says. "I'm just asking because I told him I would."
"He's lucky he has a job."
"I know," she says.
"Is he home now?"
"No, he's working tonight."
"So we're alone?" Evelyn's eyes narrow as she nods. I lock the front door and lowers the window shades. "Good," I say.

The next morning I find Boy smoking on the porch. Boy is still wearing his work jumper. His boot laces are untied. "Hey, Boy."
"Hi, Uncle." The last of the cigarette burns to the butt and he stamps the ember on the sole of a boot, then flicks the butt out to the street.
"Your Auntie Evelyn told me you want to move to the cafeteria."
"Yes."
"What's wrong at Records?"
"Nothing."
"How's your boss?"
"He doesn't like me because I smoke cigarettes."
"But your boss smokes, too. I've seen him."
"He only smokes once a day." Boy says. "Maybe I'll just smoke less."
"Why do you want to be in the cafeteria?"
"A girl."
"Oh. Celia?" Celia is a young girl from Mexico who picked up English fast.
"Yes."
"You should just tell me, don't go to your aunt."
"Thank you," Boy said. Then he takes out a cigarette and lights it with Boss's Zippo. I know it is Boss's when I see the mustang bust.

I wait for Boy to shower before leaving for work. When the water runs, I go into the garage and dig for the Zippo in Boy's jumper pockets. They're empty. The running water stop, then the shower curtain slides open. I give a quick look around and see the Zippo by the lamp, which I pocket as I leave.

At work I wait until Boss leaves for lunch before I clean his office. I empty the trash cans and wipes all the windows and surfaces in the ground floor rooms, place the monthly supply order and work out the arrangements for floor buffing next week. I will plant the lighter in deep in the crevices of Boss's leather sofa while he's gone and tomorrow I'll find it while cleaning in Boss's presence.
Just before going out to lunch, Boss calls for me.
"Records tells me Boy's not working out," Boss says. "He says Boy takes too many cigarette breaks. He even sneaks off without asking."
"I heard, Boss. I talked to Boy myself this morning. He tells me he's going to smoke less."
"Wel, no matter. He's being let go."
"But, Boss. I've talked with him. He'll smoke less."
"No matter, Jun." Boss hands me a white envelope. "That's his paycheck. Just tell him to not worry about coming back."
"Okay, Boss."
Boss gets up. He tightens his tie and asks, "So, have you found my Zippo?"
"No, Boss. I don't know where to look."
"Ask around," Boss says. "Ask your buddies."

When I hand Boy the white envelope, he asks, "What's this?"
"Don't go to the campus anymore." Boy doesn't ask any questions. He just reaches for his cigarettes.
"I found a Zippo yesterday," Boy says. "But I've already lost it."
I can feel the Zippo in my pocket, the smooth weight of it against my thigh. Tonight I'll stash it, in the back my sock drawer maybe in the little green pouch where I keep the dried bit of umbilical cord I saved from when my son was a baby. Or maybe I'll just keep it in my pocket. Keep it with me, a little fire whenever I need it.