He spent god knows how long in some mental institution in Westmoreland County, until yesterday, when he finally found a way out. None of the doctors or nurses know how he did it, but he got into a staff changing room and traded his gown for a suit, shirt, shoes, and wallet. Then, he walked out the front door in broad daylight.

    He went across the street to the Toot-N-Scoot Gas Station/Mini-Mart, where he waited in line. When his turn came, he took out the wallet and bought a pack of cigarettes, a disposable lighter, and ten dollars worth of regular unleaded. As he walked to the door, he packed the cigarettes, smacking the box off the palm of his left hand. Once outside, he lit a cigarette and surveyed his surroundings. He was taking a long drag when the intercom came on with a crack and a hiss.

    “You can’t smoke at a gas station,” a woman's voice said. He looked up at the speaker first, then spun around to see the attendant glaring at him through the bulletproof glass. She shook her head and rolled her eyes before returning her attention to the customers in line. Some of them were shaking their heads, too.

    He took two more drags, one short and one long, before letting the cigarette slip from his fingers and crushing it underfoot. Then, he walked over to the pump and poured the gas all over himself. That’s when he really lit up.

    The attendant in the Toot-N-Scoot watched as he departed the pump area aflame, and she dialed 911. He took off down the street, running straight down the double yellow line, causing traffic to wake in both directions. Cars pulled to the side. An elderly woman in a LeBaron hit a pickup parked in front of Tommy’s Diner. Two good Samaritans sprinted from the sidewalk and ran alongside him yelling, “Stop! Stop!” and “You need to get down! You need to roll! Get on the ground and roll!”

    Two officers heard the call over their radio. They were a block away, and the trio of joggers was headed toward them. As the runners approached, one of the Samaritans yelled to the cops, “He won’t stop! He just won’t stop!”

    One of the cops grabbed a tiny fire extinguisher from under the seat. He joined the joggers, telling the burning man, “You’ve got to stop. You’ll be all right, but you’ve got to stop!” The man on fire didn’t stop. The cop sprayed him, and the small extinguisher was surprisingly efficient.

    The burning man slowed, then stumbled, then dropped. He never rolled. He came to rest on his back, arms and legs flailing back and forth, as if he were a lunatic trying to make snow angels on the blacktop in August. His skin had a liquid effect; it oozed brown and red fluids. Flakes of black lifted from his skin and whirled in the breeze. White foam bubbled all over him.

    “Never seen anything like it in all my life,” the cop said. “Eighteen years on the force. Never. Never seen anything like it.”

    The mental patient pleaded with the cops. He begged, “Shoot me. Please, just shoot me. I’m just trying to kill myself.” Of course, they didn’t. They couldn’t, even if they wanted to. And you can imagine the people coming from the sidewalks, moths to firelight, and the cops not even able to muster, “Move along… Nothing to see here…”

    The newscaster says that the man is in St. Francis hospital with third degree burns over eighty percent of his body. If or when he gets out, he’ll undergo psychiatric evaluation at a mental institution in Westmoreland County. And the newscaster, the lady who rattles off the death tallies in Iraq, rising murder rates, awful things that happen to children, the lady who does so nightly with a straight face— she paused. Her lips opened slightly, and she froze for a second just before the news cut to video of an interview from the scene.

     “I don’t know,” the Toot-N-Scoot attendant said, “I don’t know what could possess a man to do such a thing. I mean, how… What makes a person do such a thing?” Then she turned from the camera and scanned her surroundings as if concerned someone might be shoplifting from the Toot-N-Scoot during the commotion.