Chris wrangles his long dark hair away from his face and, incidentally, the leaping flames.

"We could walk away," he remarks. "It would look like an accident."

"Nobody deliberately set this fire," I reply. "It is an accident."

Chris and I take turns staring at the four-foot-high blaze whipping out of the top of the Rubbermaid kitchen-style garbage container. Alternately we stare at each other, the concrete walk that circles the building, the stucco exterior of our workplace, the glass door back into the break room, and the nearby picnic table with semi-attached benches. Semi-attached meaning, in this case, that if there is a heavy person on one end and a heavy person in the middle and a light person on the other end and the heavy person in the middle gets up, then the light person on the loose end gets launched skyward with a literal assload of splinters.

I look at the rectangular beige container, noting how a couple of apple-sized holes are melting out of the sides. I can see orange light glowing through the holes. Black smoke attends the top of the flames. The container is two-thirds full of cigarette butts. Its apparent purpose is to contain spent butts so people will stop throwing them onto the dirt slope behind the building.

Ash and spent cigarette disposal in the late twentieth century typically involves a bucketful of sand. It's not very high-tech nor very expensive. It makes me wonder who shelled out for the Rubbermaid bin. If it had been a metal bin it would have a better chance of surviving the fire currently planning to meander its way through the building.

We've been standing here for a few minutes now, no kidding. I contemplate driving around the block to the local Kroger to nab a bag of marshmallows. I have no idea what we would use for sticks or unbent clothes hangers. Perhaps some long slender piece of metal pulled from one of the soon-to-be-destroyed image setters or printers. Maybe a support rod for the hanging folders in someone's desk drawer or filing cabinet. Kroger is unlikely to sell wire clothes hangers.

I have no idea how much we would have to pay each other to eat marshmallows roasted over a cigarette-filter-and-Rubbermaid-plastic fire. Probably upwards of five bucks per marshmallow. I decided I had better things to do with my money. Like drinking.

I nudge the flaming bin away from the side of the building a foot or so to give us more time to think.

As much as ten minutes earlier Chris and I, both working the evening shift at the printing and pre-press shop that employed us, had been high-speed touring the building trying to track down the source of the smoke we were smelling. By "evening shift" I mean that we’re both on salary, show up around 10 or 10:30 AM, and stay until we can't take it anymore. He works production, dealing with customer files, fixing them as best he can and sending them to various output devices -- usually either proofing printers or image setters that draw with lasers on three-foot-wide black-and-white photographic film for making plates for printing presses. I am the tech department in its entirety, responsible for maintaining anything that plugs into the wall, takes batteries, and/or responds favorably to the occasionally screwdriver or, more and more frequently, hammer or boot heel. Mostly computers.

Neither of us is particularly happy with our compensation package, our workload, or our hours.

The flames are around five feet high now. Counting the knee-high base of cigarette butt fuel, the flames are certainly taller than me and now noticeably taller than Chris. Soot is beginning to darken the eaves of the building.

"If the building burns down we'll be out of work," he comments. "Which is to say we'll get a much needed break."

I nod. "It'll easily be a few weeks before the building is ripped down and rebuilt and all of the equipment is replaced. Insurance would probably cover it."

He nods. "Probably."

We watch the fire, thinking.

"But guess who would have to pull ethernet cable through the drop ceilings and the walls? Again."

"Shit," he says.

"Shit," I agree.

After a moment, he makes an inarticulate, strangled sound I have trouble hearing over the fire. I follow him, stomping, into the break room. We each grab a coffee carafe from the machine. He grabs the one with the brown top, and I grab the orange-topped one. It's not for decaf. We have no need of decaffeinated coffee at this shop. The orange color, just as in nature, denotes danger. Double or even triple strength. We both fill up at the sink and stomp back outside.

We stand and face the six-foot flames. "You first," he says. I shake my head.

I pull a quarter out of my pocket and flip it. He calls heads and stomps the quarter. Lifting his foot, he says, "Shit," and dumps his carafe's contents into the fire.

The flames are angry at the intervention but do not abate. "Your turn," Chris says.

I sigh and dump my carafe into the fire. The flames are substantially smaller now but still angry, still present. "Shit," Chris repeats, and we stomp back into the break room for a refill.

Maybe four stomping trips later the fire is out and roasted cigarette butt tea is flooding the walk and gleefully poisoning the soil on the back slope. We watch thousands of ants high-tail it for the next county as we sit on the back walk, smoking. We pitch our butts, still smoldering, onto the damp soil.

Late the next morning there is a general mandatory meeting. The business owner harps a bit on how to safely dispose of a cigarette when the non-(cigarette)-smoking business owner is not about to shell out for a steel bucket and some sand and declares Chris and me to be heroes. The business owner (also owner of the building) thanks us for taking the effort and risk to save his assets, which certainly would have fared worse if we had merely phoned the fire department and buggered off for the night, not realizing that if we had buggered off for the night we probably wouldn't have phoned the fire department either.

There is no bonus or gift forthcoming. Reluctant, resentful, and broken-spirited firefighting is simply another duty expected of the overtime-exempt evening shift, clearly covered by that "other duties as assigned" clause in our respective job descriptions. We have performed our duty well, and this is our recognition: angry, awkward praise in front of our fellows. Many eyes present silently ask us why we bothered. We will be called upon repeatedly by our coworkers to explain our actions.

"Was it tough to put out?" the business owner asks.

I look over at Chris.

"Pretty tough," I respond. "We nearly couldn't do it."