Matchbox Collector

I paid with cash, something diners at that swanky place rarely use. I was dining alone as I always do. I left a generous tip for the waitress after flirting with her. Didn’t ask for her number.

And on the way out, I took a matchbox. I always take a matchbox.

I’ve got a pretty good collection. Dozens from across the country. I’m always driving around, eating at different places. I love eating out and I smoke and I hate using those cheap plastic lighters. No, give me a tiny stick of wood, or better yet a box of them. Close cover before striking and light up. Cancer be damned, for me smoking is still what the doctor ordered.

Life is short. You gotta do what you like, and find all the pleasure and excitement you can. So, I smoke, eat well and collect matchboxes.

I keep the boxes in perfect shape, in a wall-mounted glass case with mini-spotlights showing the design details of each. They are labelled and catalogued. I think my matchbox collection is a masterpiece.

It’s the boxes I collect. They are art. The matches themselves feel nice—I love the wood—but they are basically utilitarian.

So, I use them. Assisted with a bottle of lighter fluid, I use the matches to burn down the restaurants from which I acquired them. That’s where I get my excitement. Then, I drive off to find a nice place to have dinner the next evening.