1
Spot woke up suddenly. He had never heard the music that loud. There was no reason for him to start the day, but there was no reason for him to go back to sleep, either. He dressed. The music was still pouring in from the window. It was giving him a headache. He couldn't turn it off.
He left the apartment without eating breakfast. He wasn't wearing a coat. He had goose-bumps on his arms from the cold city air. He didn't acknowledge anything around him, not until the beautiful glow caught his eye.
He saw the fire from across the street. He wondered who had started it. The flame is large, he thought, Nice. Whoever it was did a good job; it was probably... he had forgotten that he wasn't supposed to care. At first he could only hear the hooves of one horse. But they all came together like a symphony in front of the apartment building. All of them playing their songs, some walking, some trotting, some running, some carrying wagons with large wheels that sqeecked on turns. His goose-bumps disappeared. Mr. Lot quickened his pace. He didn't care to see anymore. He didn't care to hear anymore.
He had to get out. He boarded a train. He didn't like children and he didn't like the elderly, he didn't like mothers and he didn't like grandmothers, but there they were, all of them, waiting for him on the train. He sat down next to some one who he couldn't put in a category. Some one who looked safe to him.
"It's always so crowded on these things," the man said to Spot. "I hate how they over crowd these things."
Spot nodded, it couldn't hurt to be nice. "Yes indeed, overcrowding is inconvenient."
"I've said it all along." Spot just nodded. He didn't know what to do next. He took out the paper and pretended to read. It didn't matter. "They jam us up in here like baby sardines." He said. "Baby sardines. There isn't even enough room for a brief case. A tiny brief case for God's sake and I have to put in on my lap," he said shaking the brief case up and down. Spot nodded and stroked the small box in his pocket. He hated complainers the most.
Spot didn't yell, he got off the train at the first stop. The goose-bumps had returned. He didn't try to make them go away, only one thing did. And he wouldn't go back, not ever. He needed somewhere to go, somewhere to escape to. He decided to go to work.
"Tom, you don't work today," his manager said.
"I know." He said.
"You don't remember me telling you yesterday that you don't work today?"
"I do, it's just th—"
"You know when the correctional facility told me that you were a good worker, I believed them, you aren't living up to my expectations." He said. "But it's not like I forgot to come this time."
"You don't listen when I speak. I tell you to come at 9 and you come at 11, I tell you to stay through lunch, you leave, I tell you don't come in tomorrow, and you're here. What am I supposed to do with that, what?"
"Look—"
"One more time and you're fired, and you'll be right back where you were five years ago, you hear me?" Spot hated bosses too. "You hear me? Except this time it won't be a refuge, it'll be actual prison." Spot stormed out of the building and took the matches out of his pocket. He took one out of the box, so perfect and smooth, he thought, as he caressed it between his pointer finger and thumb. A child's music box hummed throughout the street, keeping rhythm with the steps of it's owner.
He carried the match from 4th street to 18th. He had dropped the box somewhere in between, he didn't notice. I'll only hold it for a little bit, he thought, only for a little bit. His hand was shaking, but the goose-bumps were disappearing and he knew what he had to do to make them go away forever. He walked faster, and examined the match, a school marching band was practicing in the street. The drum pounded with his head, and with his feet, it was the only thing he could hear. Only for a little bit. His glided over it with his thumb one more time, and then he held it up. The drums got louder, the beat was stronger, none of the other instruments could be heard anymore, and it must have been a solo. He couldn't see straight, the match came in and out of focus against the awning. Drum roll. I'm putting it down God, see. He might have said it aloud. I'm putting it down, right here God, are you watching? And he laid it right there, on the corner of 18th and Chestnut.
The next morning he did not wake up in his apartment. Some one was speaking out in the hallway.
"See the headline today Bob?" one man asked.
"Not yet."
"It's my guy, I caught him, the one on the cover."
"Did you really, how?"
"Three blocks away from the fire, on 56th and Glen. I saw this man, he had been running, I figured he looked suspicious."
"Right," the other man said.
"So I tracked him a few blocks and I caught up to him, and do you know who it was?"
"I'll humor you, No Who?"
"Spot Conlon."
"The Spot Conlon?"
"The one and only. Most Famous, dangerous arsonist in the state, and I caught him on the way back from a job."
He looked at the bare concrete ceiling. You saw me put it down God, at least I thought you did. I told you to look. I told you right when I was going to do it and I told you to look. He could still hear the drums from the marching band. I tried so hard God, not to end up like this. Here I am God. I put it down, and I told you to look. The music was louder than ever, louder than his first time, louder than last week. It was always with him, and now it would never die.