Dan Van Holten: A Story

Flame
Flame
Flame
Flame
Flame


Little Danny’s head was on fire again. It was pretty common for him. He was walking ahead but stopped when he noticed I was behind him. I popped the last of my hot dog in my mouth. As I sucked the relish and mustard off the dog, I realized probably shouldn’t call him Little Danny. He had to be at least twenty now. When he was little, I didn’t suspect he would be the sort of kid who would set his head on fire. Tattoos just weren’t good enough anymore.


“Hey there Mr. Turner. You headed to the park?”


From a distance, it was hard to tell his head was on fire, all I could see was waves of heat above his head. Now I could see he had a pretty good fire going; it was a cheerful campfire yellow and occasionally crackled, sparks contrasting nicely with his red hair. The heat wasn’t too intense, so I was able to have a normal conversation.


“Yes, it’s a nice day for a walk. I heard from the hot dog guy that some kind of event was going on.”


We decided to walk together. I meant to ask him about his head, but I got derailed when he told me the event was a gay pride demonstration. There hadn’t been one of those in years. Now there was going to be one and Little Danny was the one who organized it.


“I didn’t realize you were gay.” I used my napkin to dab sweat from my forehead, the fire and the June sun both doing their best to get me. “What exactly are you protesting? There hasn’t been need for a protest in five years.”


“Oh, I’m not. I have some friends who are and we got to talking and decided that we should hold a gay pride march in honor of all the people who protested for rights. Most of the people attending don’t call themselves gay.”


It seemed as good a reason as any for an event and I felt in a festive mood. I ran a stick along a picket fence until I disturbed the guardian shih tzu.


The park was colorful. Butterflies and cardinals flitted to their preference of trees or flowers. Several families picnicked while younger children played. Near one of the larger shelters was a group of people with their heads on fire. I would have stood gawking if Danny hadn’t tugged at my arm.


It was a small group; the event wasn’t supposed to start for almost an hour. The crowd was incandescent! Some of them looked closer to my age. They looked young enough to pull off the fire look, but it wasn’t really something for our generation.


There was such a variety of color! Canary Yellow. Passion Pink. Conflagration Red. Bonfire. Burning Magazine Purple. Hydrogen Blue. More with each arrival. A wizened bald man in Charcoal Blaze used a gloved hand to close a smoker with a pig on a spit. Smoke billowing out carried the smell of hickory, mesquite, and pork.


“The food should be done when y’all git back!”


The news inspired a cheer from all of us. We all sat around and joked until it got close to time for the march. Since I hadn’t come with my head on fire, the others lent me some of their own. Danny and four others stood in a circle around me and took fire from their heads and put it on mine. There was some bickering about arrangement and one of the other four left to find someone with a more appropriate color, a severe looking woman in Toxic Blue. When they were done, I was a pleasant combination of Campfire Yellow, Toxic Blue, Marshmallow Orange, Charcoal Blaze, and Ember Sparks.