To Build a Fire in Miami
I originally wrote this short parody piece for my college freshman composition course. The exercise involved writing the first several pages of a short story changing the setting. I’m pretty sure that this exercise was supposed to teach us how important the setting is to a short story as a whole. I, however, learned that it’s incredible fun to make fun of classic works of literature.
Day had broken many hours ago. This day was hot, hazy, and humid. The sun hung directly overhead as it was nearly noon. The man wandered the streets of the urban wasteland that is Miami, Florida. He had been walking for days along the dirty streets of this less-than-beautiful city with his canine companion. He noticed an alley that seemed to head in the general direction of South Beach. It was narrow and foul-smelling.
He took a look back at the way he had traveled. Dirt lay hidden under many feet of concrete. On top of that concrete sprouted buildings and a thousand other things. Cars streaked past on the side stretch of road. All along the sidewalks, hypodermic needles were strewn about. Empty cups from local fast food chains littered the concrete.
He was new here in Miami, a “tourist”. The climate here was almost tropical. It was nearly one-hundred degrees. With the humidity, it seemed as though it were close to 120 degrees. Of course, this meant nothing to him. He merely pulled his heavy coat closed.
As he began to move onward, he cleared his throat and spat at the concrete sidewalk. It landed with a sizzle that surprised him. He spat once more; and once again, it landed with a sizzle. Spittle didn’t fry on the sidewalk at one-hundred. It must be above one-hundred—how much higher he didn’t know. However, the temperature didn’t matter. He was bound for the old beach house where the other fellows were waiting. They had called a taxi, but he took the roundabout way so he could truly experience Miami. He would make it to South Beach by six o’clock—just in time for supper on the beach. As for lunch, he pressed his gloved hand against the little bundle in his coat. It was also under his shirt, lying naked against his skin. It was the only way to keep the biscuits from drying out in the Miami sun. He imagined them sopped in bacon grease with a piece of fried bacon in the middle. He could almost hear his arteries hardening.
He headed straight into the forest of garbage cans and cardboard boxes. The alley floor was hard to follow. A garbage dumpster had tipped over and covered the concrete with nearly half a foot of refuse. He was happy that he didn’t have to try and make it through the alley with a heavy backpack. All he had on him was his lunch. He was surprised, however, at the heat. He had grown a beard for the trip, but it did nothing to absorb the pools of sweat that had developed on his face.
At the man’s heels trotted his dog, a big Alaskan Husky. It had thick gray fur that no doubt protected it from the oppressive Florida sun. The animal moved cautiously among the layers of garbage. Instinct told him that the man’s measurements were wrong. It was not one-hundred degrees. It wasn’t even 105. the dog didn’t know or care anything about thermometers. Possibly in its brain there was no perception of searing heat as there was in the man’s. However, it did understand instinct. The dog moved along at the man’s heels, expecting him to stop at a local restaurant to rest and enjoy the air conditioning. The dog had come to understand air conditioning, and it wanted air conditioning.
The dog panted heavily to cool himself. It didn’t have to sweat to cool itself, but the man certainly did. The sweat was pouring down the man’s face, and a drop or two would fall from the tip of the man’s nose every two or three steps. He was also chewing tobacco. He was so hot that he didn’t care about wiping his chin after he expelled the cancer juice. The amber spittle continued to fester on his chin and began to dry in the Florida sun. The result was a rather interesting mound of color on his bearded chin.
He figured that he was going about four miles and hour. At this rate, he would reach the stretch of road that led into South Beach by half past three. He decided that he would celebrate that event with the eating of lunch there.
The dog dropped back at his heels again, with its tail tucked under its body as the man climbed over a dumpster in his path. The man was not much of a thinker. A detailed analysis of his thoughts yields only two thoughts: he would eat lunch at the main road and reach the beach house at six. There was no one to speak to in this alley. He couldn’t have spoken to them if there had been. The wad of tobacco in his cheeks would have made intelligent speech nigh impossible. So he continued to chew on his cancer cud, deepening the disgusting color on his chin.
He now and again thought of how terribly warm it was. His cheeks and nose felt as though they were on fire. Every time he touched them, he felt a terrible stinging. His cheeks and nose were burned. He wished that he had remembered to put on sunscreen. It didn’t matter much, though. After all, what were burned cheeks? A bit painful, that was all; they were never serious.
He looked at the piece of broken glass in the alley. He had to be keenly aware of the shards of glass. One large piece could easily poke through his moccasins and puncture his skin. A cut on a piece of glass could definitely be dangerous. It would at least delay him while he dug out the glass and stopped the bleeding. He carefully stepped along until he had passed the glass. Then he resumed his pace.
During the next half hour, he encountered several broken beer bottles in the alleyway. At one point, he was unsure of how to proceed and sent the dog out ahead of him. It didn’t want to go so the man threw it forward. It made a few cautious steps until it steeped on a piece of broken glass. Almost immediately, it dropped down and began biting at the glass. It didn’t think about this. Instinct told it to dig out the glass or it would have painful traveling. The man removed his mitten and helped the dog remove the glass. It was less than a minute that he had the mitten off, but he could feel the heat radiating off the concrete, frying his hand like a piece of steak in a microwave. It certainly was hot. He swiftly pulled his mitten back on and felt the heat still on his hand.
At precisely half past three, he arrived at the main road. He was pleased to be on schedule. If he kept this speed up, he would certainly reach the beach house by six. He pulled out his lunch and sat in a ditch by the side of the road to eat. The biscuit had already turned hard. He chuckled at his foolishness. He had forgotten that the biscuit would get stiff from sitting. He needed to build a fire to warm the biscuit. His toes had already developed a burning sensation that alarmed him.
He quickly dipped his feet into the water that had collected in the ditch until they stopped burning. The old southerners were wrong. It wasn’t the humidity; it was the heat. He dug his matches out of his coat and proceeded to make a fire. He used the thick weeds to start his fire and slowly progressed to twigs from dead trees. Soon, he had a roaring fire. He used the fire to warm his biscuit. The dog backed away from the fire and gave the man an exasperated look.
The man probably never knew heat. The dog, however, knew. It knew that now was not the time of day for anyone to be walking about in the Florida heat. It knew that it was a time to sit in the comfort of air conditioning and curl up for a nap.
The man had obviously not thought of the location where he should build his fire. The dried grass had begun to catch fire around him. He cursed himself for allowing the fire to get this large. Putting out this fire would take some amount of time. He probably wouldn’t make it to South Beach until after dark. He turned to the water it the ditch and pulled out and old Coke bottle which was halfway-full. He dumped the water onto the fire and thought for a moment that he noticed a slight dying down of the fire. He ran back to the ditch and re-filled his bottle.
The dog recoiled from the ever-increasing wall of flame with a growl. Its tail drooped as it tried to increase the distance between it and the oppressive heat of the fire. Instinct told it that the temperature around that fire was definitely too hot.
The man rushed with his newly-filled bottle and dumped its contents into the fire. Just a few more bottles of water would surely put out the fire, but it was so hot. A current of heat blew in his direction and threw him to his knees. The last thing the man was aware of was the swirling oranges and yellows all around him. He curled up into a deep, satisfying sleep. The heat wasn’t all that bad. He just needed to take a little nap to clear his mind…
The dog caught the pungent smell of death on the wind and let loose a terrible howl that was swallowed up by the crackling of the fire. Then, the dog straightened up and headed back toward the restaurant they had passed where he could rest in the air conditioning and maybe get some food from some passers-by.