Editor's Appreciation, August 2008
Coshnear's short story "Man on Fire" is deceptively simple. On the surface, a boy and his father discuss a violent protest, but the words that each character uses to describe their feelings about watching such an event are more complex. We see a father struggling to explain a complicated situation in a way that a young child can understand. We see a child processing the event on a purely instinctual level, finally deciding, "I'm afraid of the man." Through these two characters, the reader is faced with one of the greatest paradoxes of human society--that which demands that we both work toward our own survival and also that we stand up for what we believe in no matter what the cost.

The five year old boy has begun to understand mortality. By “mortality,” I mean simply that people die. When I say “understand,” I don't mean understand, I mean feel.

The feeling comes at bedtime. Dad is in the first stages of remodeling the house. By “first stages,” I mean he took down two walls with a utility knife, a pry bar and a maul. The boy's bedroom is twice as large and differently dark. When bedtime stories are finished, the boy has many questions, as if, not as if - it's as real as a hammered thumb – he doesn't want to be left alone.

Dad doesn't want to sleep in the boy's bed, though he often does, and easily he could. He's tired, and when he was hot and parched he drank beer which made him more tired; but he wants the boy to confront his fears and doubts. He thinks that by staying he'd be denying the boy an important opportunity to develop his character. Besides, Dad has a new DVD from the library, a documentary about peace activists.

Dad's been searching the Internet and reading blogs about Abu Ghraib, Bagram and Guantanamo. He's in the first stages of a paper he wants to write about torture. Already he's overwhelmed by the evidence of war crimes and the lack of public outrage. What he feels, when he thinks about his feelings, is an accretion of helplessness and cynicism. What he wants is an exhibition of courage. He'll lie on the sofa and watch.

The boy asks if bad things happen to bad people. The tone in the boy's voice sounds almost consoling, a put on self-assurance that Dad recognizes, as if the boy were trying to talk himself into something. The logic works like this: if bad things happen to bad people, then bad things happen BECAUSE people are bad , AND if people are good, bad things will NOT happen to them. What is meant here by “bad things” is almost certainly death.

Mom hired someone to remodel the house, except for the demolition, which Dad enjoys. Dad is capable with tools, but he's not a good problem solver and he doesn't enjoy trying to solve problems. He's a history teacher at the junior college and he likes problems, but he finds solutions dull, limiting. Re the boy's question, Dad answers, “Sometimes. What do you think?”

Soon Dad leaves the bed. He promises to “check in” on the boy, something he says when the boy is clinging and seems to need more than a good night kiss. Rarely does Dad check in on him. The boy usually falls asleep within a minute of Dad's departure.

But the dark is darker tonight and when Dad clicks on the TV it makes a loud crackling sound, which if one has time to think about it, might have come from anywhere. Dad slips in the DVD. He takes a beer from the fridge, then puts it back. He finds a bag of toffee peanuts in the cupboard. What he can't find is the remote, not on the windowsill, between the sofa cushions or under the sofa. He sits and watches as a water cannon knocks black civil rights marchers off their feet, as a young man climbs onto the hood of a car with a megaphone in his hand, as a bald monk in a purple robe immolates himself. The images replay repeatedly in spite of Dad whose head has dropped to the pillow, eyes closed. He has crumbs on his chest.

Dad is snoring when the boy arrives and the boy would likely wake him if he were not captivated by the images on the screen. By “the images” I mean the picture of the man setting himself on fire. The man sits in an intersection, legs crossed Indian-style, but he doesn't look like an Indian; he looks like the man who brings food at the Chinese restaurant, except this man's head is shaved. The man doesn't look angry or happy or sad, and certainly not frightened. There must be a name for the expression on his face, but the boy doesn't know what to call it. Kind of spooky. Kind of like he's extra calm. Kind of like he's looking right at you, and then the flames are all over him and his clothing curls like burning paper until his face is hidden by black smoke. He does it again and again, each time beginning with that un-nameable face.

Dad's arm drops off the edge of the sofa. He awakens to see he is not alone. “Why does the man put fire on himself?” asks the boy.

It takes almost a minute for Dad to feel oriented. He turns off the television. “It was a form of protest.”

“Was it real fire?”

“Yes.”

“Did he die?”

“I think he did.”

“Why?”

“It's hard to explain. He - ”

“Why did he want to die?”

Dad leads the boy by the hand back to bed. They lie down. “I wouldn't say the man wanted to die,” he says. “He made a sacrifice in order to stop people from killing other people. There was a war.” The boy is quiet, though Dad can tell by the sound of his breathing, he's awake. Dad considers the insufficiency of his answer. He tries again, “The man set himself on fire because he loved people.”

“I think the man is bad.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I'm scared of the man.”

Dad turns the boy onto his side. He curls around him and kisses the back of his head. He says. “Try to sleep.”

Soon, Dad can hear the boy is sleeping, and something else – he hears his own heart. For the first time in many years he is afraid of the dark. Tomorrow he'll hang a sheet over the gaping hole. He'll stop by the hardware and pick up a night light. Why not, at least until the house is finished.

Daniel Coshnear has two children, lives in Guerneville, California, and works at a group home for men and women with mental illnesses and substance issues. He is author of a collection of stories, Jobs & Other Preoccupations (Helicon Nine 2000). He can be reached at dan@coshnear.org.