We had seven maybe eight pizza boxes. We were, as earlier stated, a cliché college house. We had collected the boxes over a length of time unknown to my roommates, myself,
and probably God. These pizzas accompanied football games, hangovers, and nights when there were no clean dishes—often various combinations of these.
We had at least ten pizza boxes and I had the day off. It being the heat of summer, I woke up early. It was noon and I had at least ten hours to kill before I was going to go back to my cave and sleep. It was hot. There was no need for a fire. But I had time and pizza boxes.
I lost my shirt after the first four started burning. Cardboard burns hot, and it was summer, and I was alone, and I don’t need a damn reason to take my shirt off in my house. When I threw in the next three, I lost my pants; which invention of a fire dance. The dance consisted of a pattern of thrusts and shakes and something like a wobble. If my roommate hadn’t walked in before I burned the next four, I think I would have looked quite silly. But as it was I was only mostly naked dancing in front of a burning pile of Little Caesar’s at one o’clock in the afternoon. Nothing silly about that.