Putting Out The Fire With Gasoline

Putting Out The Fire With Gasoline
By: Gaspar Bartko
© Gaspar Bartko 2009

“Sell! What else can I sell?”

The question burned rubber as it raced around in my brain.

“Jesus Christ, just another hundred bucks and I’ll be fine. Fuck! What else is there?”

I desperately rifled through my stuff again to hunt down anything that I thought might be of value.

I inwardly cheered as I pounced on my antique Tiffany cigarette case. It was 14kt gold-lined sterling silver. I didn’t care that it wasn’t mine in the first place - I had pilfered it over 30 years ago from a guy I lived with in Montreal: my supposed boyfriend, Jacques, who at any given time was either too drunk to stand, or too busy fucking everybody else but me.

“Thanks for the good times, pal.”

I figured I deserved that little trinket for services rendered and it seemed appropriate to get some cash for it.

“But shit, is it enough? How much can I get for it? There’s no market for stuff like THIS in this sleepy town. Christ, does anyone here even know what Tiffany’s is?”

More stuff. I had to get more stuff. Something, anything to pawn. I needed more money. I scanned the room frantically. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw it on top of my dresser: a black leather presentation box embossed with a silver disk. My watch.

“Yeah, that has to be worth something.”

It was a gorgeous Movado my brother, Tony, had given me for Christmas back in 2005. He had blown me away with it.

It had been a dazzling mid-September afternoon: a perfect West-Coast day. The temperature had hovered around the low 20s and with the sun low in the sky the soft light lent its golden glow to everything it touched. We were driving to his place on Harwood Street, right smack dab in the middle of Vancouver’s gay West End. Yes, my brother, a straight guy was living in the middle of 60-thousand fags. At some point during the drive I casually mentioned to him how I was slowly, very slowly saving up for a Movado.

I told him how I had carried a torch for that watch ever since I first saw it in a full-page ad in GQ Magazine 25 years ago: the “Museum” watch. Man it was beautiful. I never seriously thought I’d have one. It was a case of lost hope and lost cause, but, God, I wanted one. Unknown to me, the bugger went out the next day and bought me one. He kept that little secret for four months biding his time until the right moment to give it to me came along. That moment came one day during the Holidays when he dropped me off at my place in New Westminster. He grabbed my wrist just as I was getting out of the car and thrust a crinkly plastic bag in my hand.

“Here you go. Just a little something to remember this day by,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”

I was trembling by the time I got up to my apartment. Was it what I hoped it was? The compact square bulkiness in the bag was about the right size. Oh please, God, don’t let it be just another package of good intentions. Tony’s track record of birthday and Christmas presents to me was questionable. There was that iridescent burgundy-green disco shirt in ’89, followed by a spectacular 150-piece tool set sometime later. Over the years I had learned to smile and open my eyes a little wider with mock anticipation as I unwrapped another one of his mystery gifts to me.
“Hey dude, thanks. This is great,” is what I’d been saying to him for the past I don’t know how many years.

I gently placed the box on top of the computer work station. It stayed there for three weeks. I went from hypomanic anticipation to deeply depressed disappointment and back again for days every time I glanced at the gift.
The phone rang one evening.

“Did you open it yet?” It was my brother.

“Uh, no,” I said sheepishly.

“What?” came back his crestfallen voice. “Aw, Jer, you gotta open it.”

I figured his anticipation of my reaction was probably on par with my trepidation. I caved. I cradled the phone in the crook of my neck and reached for the gift.

I can’t remember which jeweler’s wrappings enveloped the box in magic. Probably some place in Richmond Centre that catered to a wealthy Asian clientele. One thing I’ve got to say about my brother at that time. He made a ton of money, and he knew where to shop.

“Shit! It is, it is, it is…a Movado!”

I’m not sure if that was really me squealing like a little girl or if it was just my imagination. It didn’t matter. The fact was that I had wanted one of these beauties for so long and now there it was nestled in its leather case. The watch was stunning simplicity in stainless steel and 18k gold. I had never seen anything so beautiful. I had never owned anything so beautiful. I just stood there absolutely mesmerized by this work of art that my big brother had given me with all his heart.

“Thank you, Tony,” was all I said. I hope to this day it was enough.

A sudden awareness of traffic noises and people arguing instantly brought me back from memories past.

“I’ll give you sixty for the case, and forty for the watch,” said the snake behind the counter at the pawn shop. My heart caved in.

“I’ll take it,” I agreed robotically.

I knew there was no bargaining room. This was the last stop. I had reached my destination: a place called, “Desperation.” Yet somewhere deep in my mind an ember of pleasure began to glow. Its heat was the consummation of my hypomanic frenzy and frantic need. I was momentarily consumed by fire as soon as I touched the cash. But the feeling didn’t last. Pseudo-sexual as it was, there was very little afterglow. A little dejected, I put the money in my wallet and left the store.

Fifteen minutes later as I was on my way home, the race started up again. The stench of burning rubber filled my brain.

“Money! I need more fucking money!”