Don't wait for the fire.
Jack Sampson wasn’t his name, but we’ll call him that for the sake of the story. He didn’t wait until his house burned down to start over. That’s a common thing with creatures of habit. They become conditioned. They sit in their own juices like a sour bath. They have to come home to a charcoal pile where their living room used to be. They’ve got to get a big fucking blister before they take off their shoes. Then the decision is made for them. Force quit. Force change. A new beginning.
Jack Sampson set fire to his own house. He has dirty black eyes, with a red-veined roadmap to nowhere in the whites. He looks at things differently than you do. I don’t know you, so maybe I’m wrong. Have you ever taken a can of gasoline and a blow torch to your dining room table? Did you do it on Thanksgiving? No. You don’t have that kind of brain. Jack’s a little tweaked, mentally. He burned the living fuck out of himself in the process. Ultimately his method was successful. Safe? No. No one’s safe. We’re all buzzing right along in astroid country anyway.
What happened after the house was charbroiled? I don’t know. Fire department, water, smoke I assume. The neighbors came out in their pajamas. Gawked for a few minutes and then went back to bed. They had to be at work in the morning. They needed rest. They had had their own fires to stoke.
Jack danced. Not always on the dance floor either. He couldn’t dance for shit by traditional standards. Tradition dropped out of his repertoire after the thanksgiving incident. To him, that was smoke and mirrors. Things that were passed down either had meaning or they didn’t. Most of what we call traditions today fall into the category of the latter. Instincts matter. He sure as hell stopped, dropped, and rolled when the fire hit him. He’ll run if there’s a pack of dogs. He’s no fool. Just not a victim of habit.
Well, he might be a fool. I don’t know. But what I was saying was, he dances. He’s got a rhythm about him. A rhythm to a song you’ve never heard before. I’ve never heard it either. No one has. It’s no conspiracy. The thing is, you’ll dance to Jack Sampson’s rhythm too. Nature has a way of moving to the strongest rhythm in the room. The same way you’re heart will catch up to that electronic dance music on the treadmill. That’s why everyone is so eager for the beat to drop. They’re on the brink of a heart attack. That’s Jack Sampson. He’s the pulse. It doesn’t matter what room.
If it were politics, you might call it charisma. I personally don’t think he’s aware of it, not enough to label himself charismatic. It’s just something that developed. People want to move with him. He’s having a good time. Fire, no fire, house, no house. He’s moving and shaking. He’s the alpha rhythm and you’ve got no choice but to join him or be left in the static.
It’s not all the same rhythm either. He’ll change it up on you. He’ll change it in the middle of a sentence. Decide whatever he was talking about isn’t important any longer, pause, those black eyes wander, then he’ll be moving in an entirely different direction. Still dancing. Grooving. Maybe that’s what I should call it. A groove. Everyone can get in a grove. The only difference is, Jack can pick and choose. He’s an autonomous record needle, jumping from one grove to the next. Premeditated, off the cuff, it makes no sense either way. All I know is it’s always the strongest in the room. The other frequencies tend to drift toward him. It’s music no one’s ever heard before, but it echoes in their bones, or their guts. It’s a wifi network with no security. Why wouldn’t you take that ride? He’s not taking anything from anyone. If anything, he’s sharing. Gracious with his groove. Happy to be on his feet. It doesn’t mean he’ll stay there long. I said the rhythm was strong — I didn’t say anything about consistency.
What can I say, he’s a fire-starter. An instrument of non-refundable groove. A catalyst for change and a beacon in the form of a burning house. Might not always make the most sense, but Jack’s all heart. Heart and gasoline.