Flame by Michael Chin

Ingrid didn’t like birthdays.

            She didn’t mind getting older—a sheer measurement of time—and supposed there had been some pleasure in presents when she was a child. But as she’d grown older and entered college and adulthood and the work force, birthdays felt like little more than an excuse for the kinds of people who did like birthdays to collect tokens of their popularity in parties and sing-alongs and shots at bars and social media posts celebrating their existence.

            So, the degree of Ingrid’s activity on social media after her eighteenth birthday was to systematically shut down accounts, or at least remove her birthday from them. When her father had a work trip and her mother shared she was going with him and tried to get Ingrid to go along so they wouldn’t miss her birthday, Ingrid resisted—citing school, citing work. And therein she recognized her opportunity to go a year without anyone singing “Happy Birthday” at her or embarrassing her with the single well wish that inevitably gave way to the second, to the third, to the string of people who wouldn’t leave her alone.

            And she had her day. Reading her Intro to Psych textbook over hot coffee. She worked on her Calculus homework. She indulged in a movie—Pretty in Pink. She’d always liked that one.

            It was shaping up to be a good birthday. She was off to work, which may not have been her ideal way to spend six hours, but was nonetheless normal, which was good in its own right.

            She drove to the Reel to Reel video store in silence, parked her car in her usual area of the lot, removed enough from the store to leave prime spots for customers, under a lamppost to give her some light after closing.

She pulled open the big glass door at the front the store.

They assaulted her. “Surprise!”

Big Todd, Little Todd, Gabby, Gloria, Flo, Jimmy, the new-ish guy Ingrid regretted still not learning the name of but now it had been too long to ask without it being awkward, Josh who no longer worked there but had apparently been summoned for the occasion.

They all sang.

And as Big Todd cut through the cake, he explained that he knew it was Ingrid’s birthday from the I-9 form she’d filled out when she started at Reel to Reel, and reassured her the frosting was dairy-free, because he knew she was lactose intolerant from her health form.

It was a nice gesture, she supposed. Arranging for everyone to be there. The party hat and balloons that prompted customers to wish Ingrid a happy birthday, too, and compelled her to smile at them. One of them insisted on hugging her.

But as Gloria gathered the used paper plates in a trash bag and Big Todd directed Jimmy to work the register because there were customers waiting and Ingrid finished poking and prodding and rearranging bites of the remaining cake she didn’t want, Gabby leaned against the counter next to her.

“You know it’s my birthday, too,” she said. Then, lest Ingrid misunderstand her, “Don’t tell him.”

            Then, “I have Celiac. I can’t eat gluten.”

            Ingrid eyed the cake.

            Then she looked to Big Todd. Keeper of paperwork. Arranger of parties. Or, rather, this party. She couldn’t remember another birthday celebrated at Reel to Reel.

            There was a pack of candles on the counter Big Todd must have forgotten to put on the cake. Before Ingrid could say anything, Gabby ripped open the package, took one out and lit it with her Bic. She was notorious for taking long smoke breaks, one in a string of ongoing arguments between her and Big Todd.

            Gabby held the candle in front of Ingrid. “Make a wish.”

            Ingrid thought of her day, up until the moment she stepped through the door at Reel to Reel. The quiet. The anonymity. The peace.

            On the other side of the counter, Big Todd cut himself a third slice of cake. Or maybe a second slice for Ingrid. She could imagine him forcing it on her. Calling her the birthday girl loudly enough for another wave of customers to hear and come talk to her. Telling her she could afford to put some meat on her bones—what’s another piece of cake? Putting an arm over her shoulders to hold her tight, the context of a birthday celebration all the context he’d need to justify it. He always found a justification.

            Ingrid blew out the flame.

Michael Chin grew up in Utica, New York and currently lives in Las Vegas with his wife and son. He has published three books: You Might Forget the Sky was Ever Blue (Duck Lake Books), Circus Folk (Hoot ‘n’ Waddle), and The Long Way Home (Cowboy Jamboree Press). Find him online at miketchin.com and follow him on Twitter @miketchin.