“When people die, worlds die with them.” (Yevtushenko)
I like hot things. Strong flavors, really. Two recent addictions have led me to this conclusion. Fisherman’s Friends and Atomic Fireballs. How could any backpack do without? I love how my Friend’s open not my mind but my whole head. I feel like all the veins from my neck up are being inflated with helium, and if I am not careful I could get carried away...a strong wind...a hiccough...anything.
Fireballs are different, though.
When I was younger, Fireballs were all machismo. I can stand the heat, baby. Now, I realize that there are reasons beyond etymology and that the words machismo and masochism are strikingly similar. My friend Paul used to go into Thai restaurants and ask the cooks to make the food as spicy as they could. The help would then stare and titter behind Paul’s back as he downed pitchers of water and mopped the pools of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief that desperately needed to be ringed out. Paul doesn’t do that anymore. On the other hand, there is Juan, who, like Paul, professes his deep love for spicy foods. However, for Juan, anything hotter than catsup ( a major food group in Juan’s book) is insane. And it took him all of seven seconds to spit out his first Fireball.
My students stare gape-mouthed as I tuck a Fireball in between cheek and jaw before class so we can talk about Shakespeare or Faulkner or Dostoevsky. I tell them, though I think they doubt, that I really don’t find them all that hot. It’s true now. No bravado. No stiff upper lip. No big boys don’t cry. They don’t burn. Which makes me wonder.
I have given students both Friends and Fireballs (don’t worry, I warn them first) and have watched their eyes bulge, sweat erupt in beads on their pimply foreheads, and tears well up in eyes determined to tough it out. And I wonder, is it really that bad? The bulging eyes would say it is. And that just makes me wonder about everything...tastes, and pain, and joy. I can’t bite into an olive without wanting to wretch. Is the taste the same for those that love them? Is that their brand of masochism? Loving olives? Or is the entire experience wholly different? There’s a thought. When I notice the paper disc moon slicing through the clouds, is that moment of breathlessness, that smile, that split second of something like rapture...is that what you feel? How can we ever know? Forget the tree falling in the woods. I am talking about this world, here. Around us. These worlds. His and hers and mine and yours...and what about love?
Wanna Fireball?
