Little Red Lighter

I have this lighter. It’s a little red one I bought at a 7 Eleven in Washington D.C. I don’t remember when. On the front a logo is a red and orange “7” with the green “Eleven” lettering behind it. On the back a standard white sticker warns against the use of the lighter by the young inquisitive fire bug hands of unattended children. For all intents and purposes it’s as common as they come.

I usually lose lighters like I forget people’s names moments after an introduction. These are pretty normal things as far as smoking goes both the lighting of cigarettes and the asking of names. However, for some reason I’ve managed to keep this lighter even though I couldn’t tell you who I last smoked with. It has stayed with me during the previous months of travel as I’ve puffed on a myriad of foreign and domestic cigarettes before boarding one plane after another, stopping all over the world on my way to war torn fields of Afghanistan. It’s passed through countless hands as it was borrowed and returned from smokers congregated in designated smoking rooms, lounges, and clearly marked outside areas to share in the smoking ritual while engaging in the mundane repetitive small talk shared by black lunged smokers the world over.

I use this lighter 15 or 20 times a day. I know I smoke too much, but these are stressful times. When I go through the smoker’s ritual I’ll pull this lighter out of my pocket and light my cigarette covering the flame with my hand to shield it from the dry dust filled wind coming down out of the jagged Afghan mountains on the horizon. I spin the lighter around in my hand as I inhale the first taste of smoke and relief. The ritual now complete I look down at this red lighter, with the familiar logo but something seems off. Something seems wrong about this familiarity here in this place. A memento from not so long ago. A token of another life.

I arrived in Kandahar via an antiquated passenger plane based out of Kuwait and manned by a South African flight crew. This crew, more relaxed and jovial then crews of flights past, openly mocked each other light heartedly while the Capitan made risqué jokes over the planes intercom in his husky Afrikaner accent regarding his newly engaged co-Capitan and his possible lack of experience in the cockpit. No attempt was made to mask the painfully obvious double entendre.

As the plane began to fly closer to the Kandahar Air Field the Capitan, now more serious in his tone, tells us through the intercom that he has lost all communications with the tower at the military air field shared by slow flying hulking cargo planes, fast moving fighter jets, and troop laden helicopters. He warns that the plane is becoming short on fuel, and a decision will have to be made shortly on possible alternate landings should communications not be restored within the next few minutes. I can hear the other professional government and military contract passengers around me discussing possible reasons for all of the numerous methods and forms of radio communications with the tower to be down at once. Each of these reasons involve any number of explosions, rockets, mortars, or dirty deeds possibly performed by a bearded enemy wearing towels on their heads with hatred in their hearts. For the time being we will circle the air field and mountain ranges around Kandahar as the fuel gauge inches closer to empty. Below us war awaits, and all I can think about is using that damned little red lighter.