Sofar knocks on the Blisses’ apartment door. No one answers. No one’s home. Seymour’s at work, Morris is at Marcelo’s.
Taking a stuffed envelope addressed to Morris from his suit pocket, he shoves it under the door.
Back at his apartment, Sofar finds everything’s as he left it. Nothing’s touched. Hatfield will have to deal with all the items. He stole all my things once, Sofar thinks, let him steal them again.
He combs his hair then dials 911, asks for the fire department. “Yes,” he calmly tells them, “a fire.” They ask if it is big, out of control. “Not yet,” he tells them. “But soon.” He gives them his address then hangs up.
Carrying everything he needs up the stairs to the tar covered roof, Sofar finds it hot, even this early in the day.
He sweats as he pours the paint thinner over his clothing, his hair. The odor bites his nose. He’s thought it through; he isn’t ending much. His life has been over for years, or rather, never fully got started.
From the east, the breeze carries the sound of sirens. Fire engines for Sofar. For his fire.
The first match sparks then fizzles. The second does the same. “Come on,” Sofar says, listening to the sirens gain strength. He wants to be well immolated by the time they arrive; he doesn’t want to be saved.
Striking two matches together, a beautiful tight flame leaps forth. “Yes,” Sofar says, pleased, then is surprised when it jumps to his hand.
His skin burst into flame. The fire runs up his shirt and engulfs him.
At first he doesn’t really feel anything, the fire burning the paint thinner and not his skin. Then he feels a pain so painful that it doesn’t hurt; it feels cooling and strange.
Then it’s immensely painful.
Sofar changes his mind. Killing himself is a mistake. He wants to be saved, wants to live.
The scream of the siren increases, but not quick enough for Sofar. He flops to the roof and rolls and rolls, hoping to kill the flames.
They hold, chewing his skin, clothing, and hair.
Sofar, rolling, sees no flashes of his life, no scenes of childhood. He only sees the immediate: the tar covered roof, his burning limbs, and a few pigeons cutting the sky.
The flames gain.
“Not like this,” he yells, flailing about, rolling toward the building’s edge. “I don’t want to die like this,” he pleads.
He gets his wish.
Sofar rolls off the roof. Gravity abides. He blazes out into the morning, down toward the street and the city below.
Chapter 42