My Father

The other day I asked my boss about the possibility of a raise; about a buck or two. She laughed rolled her eyes and murmured something like “good luck with that.”
Her brutal honestly reminded me of my father.
When I was around eight years old I asked my father if I would ever be a major league baseball player. He looked me up and down a said “probably not kid.” Then he continued adding his normal cocktail of gasoline and lighter fluid to the barbeque pit. I was heartbroken.
“Hey,” my older brother said with an snicker. “the old mans ‘bout to light himself on fire again.
My old man set an unofficial neighborhood record igniting himself on fire. This only bested by the senile old couple next door who owned a fireplace and no common sense. The fire department was on a first name basis with my street. We sent them cookies every Christmas.
My brother’s prediction came true. A mere five minutes later my dad was human torch.
“Jesus, not again,” my mother said. She want to grab the fire extinguisher while my father fell to the ground and rolled. He looked like snail that someone put salt on. In the distance I heard a fire truck.