The Table Lighter

The Table Lighter

A Young Man Writes

At the last week of every summer of my life from age 9 to 19 I would go downtown to the annual exhibition. I, of course, loved the rides, the junk food, the freak show (Dainty Dora at 600 plus pounds and The Lobster Boy, whose middle fingers and toes were fused with his thumb or big toe and pinky finger or toe), and, as a teenager, the bands, and the girls. But the main attraction for me was a particular arcade game. I would deposit my dime and use a metal claw that opened and closed to try to pick up an object contained within, then hopefully drop it into the place where it would be offered up as a prize. There was only one such object I ever wanted, and that was the table lighter. There was just something magical about it. I just had to have it. Nothing else would do. I had never seen one in a store.

           Each time I manoeuvred the weakly clamping claw over the table lighter, I would take a deep breath, and whisper a prayer of ‘hold onto it’. Sometimes it became a loud curse. Then I would and try to pick the table lighter up. The metal claw would grip the heavy item, but never so hard that I could pick the table lighter up without dropping it before it got to the exit, no matter how hard I tried. I repeatedly failed. I had no interest in the other, more ordinary, lighter, and smaller objects. It had to be the table lighter or nothing. I got a lot of nothing.

           When I would ride on the roller coaster, singing along with Roy Orbison’s “Only the Lonely,” I imagined having the table lighter in my lap while I rode, the possessor of the great prize that I would show off to those on the ground. But having it with me would be so much more. It would be a clear sign of having achieved something. I needed a sense of achievement at that stage of my life. I didn’t feel that I was especially good at anything. Certainly, I did few things well at school, as my parents would remind me. My father kept telling me that I would no doubt become a ditch digger the way my life was going. At best, according to him, I would end up selling brushes or encyclopedias door-to-door. I had no reason not to believe him.

           By the time I was 13, I had smoked a few times, to show that I was Junior High cool, with cigarettes not bought but borrowed. My parents both smoked, but I didn’t want to share my dream of winning the table lighter with them. They might think that I smoked, and might be more careful in counting their cigarettes, which would not do me any good. They were my main source of the illicit objects.

           Then one day, the exhibition gods looked down upon me and smiled. I had been playing for a little over an hour, and down to my last dime (one of many I had saved over the year), when I saw a tall, thin man watching me. I had seen him a few times before. He ran one of the concessions, and performed magic tricks while he did so. He came up and said to me, “You have been working hard at getting that table lighter. You deserve to have it”. Ever the entertainer, he passed his right hand over the game, and whisper something that sounded magical. Then, a short time after he disappeared from my sight, I somehow succeeded in lifting the table lighter, and moving it over to where it could be dumped so I could pick it up . I couldn’t believe it. Then, when I put my hands around it, they tingled. It would be the first of several miracles that year. Another dream came true.  I feel that I owe it all to the table lighter. It’s flame ignited my life.

           Arthur Fielding

A Young Man Reads and Searches

Gary, a young man of 16 was sitting in the attic of his grandfather’s old house. His parents were busy cleaning the place up so they could sell it. The old man was barely cold in his grave. Gary read very carefully through his grandfather’s mini-memoir cursively scrawled on an old writing pad. It was a strange thing for him to read, as it was hard to imagine his grandfather as young, but even more he found it hard to believe in his grandfather’s feeling that he wasn’t good or successful at anything. His grandfather was Gary’s first hero. His star never dimmed as long as the old man was a physical presence in Gary’s life.

           Gary wanted to be a writer, just like his grandfather had been. The old man had published novel after novel, his first at the age of 20. All of them made the best seller lists. He even had a character named Gary in one of his novels, who looked and acted just like his grandson.

           His grandfather had claimed in his notes that he owed his success to winning a table lighter. Gary felt that he should look around for it in the attic. His grandfather would not have gotten rid of it.  He had no good idea what it looked like, but he knew it would be a lot bigger and a heavier than the lighter he used for his cigarettes (something his parents did not know about). He knew that he could hide it away in his pocket.

           Gary searched and searched, getting more and more desperate. This day presented his last chance. His parents were in quite a rush for the money. Then he saw something that was clearly out of the ordinary. It was an old Seagram’s Crown Royal whisky bag – purple, felt-like and with a gold-laced drawstring. He had heard his grandfather talk about them, and how he had saved Seagram’s bags as a young man. This looked like it contained something that stretched it to its fullest. When Gary picked it up, he became aware that it was heavy. Inside was the table lighter. And when he held it in his hands, they tingled. It made Gary feel that he could do anything. He thought about how much he wanted to write, to make his living like his grandfather had, writing and teaching. He had confidence now, as well as what he knew was a good idea for a short story.