The Flaming Cigar Incident: A Day with the Bahian Researcher
I remember the day clearly. It was one of those oddly quiet mornings at the office—nothing out of the ordinary, until, of course, everything went wrong. My new boss, the Bahian researcher, had just arrived, moving at the pace of someone who had all the time in the world, even though the rest of us were frantically trying to meet deadlines. His soft, almost hypnotic voice was a constant background hum, as he casually made his way through the day, his thoughts drifting like the smoke from his ever-present cigarettes.
Now, back then, in those halcyon days before health regulations became a thing, smoking indoors was as commonplace as a cup of coffee. And while everyone had their own way of coping with office stress—some of us with caffeine, some with chocolate—my boss had a much simpler solution: cigars. Big, fat, hand-rolled cigars. The kind you could almost feel in your lungs even before they were lit.
He sat at his desk, half-heartedly scribbling some notes for an upcoming research project, his cigar dangling precariously from his fingers. As usual, he was distracted, lost in thought. He didn’t even notice when he absentmindedly tossed the half-burned cigar into the trash can beside him. It was a gentle thwunk—the kind of noise that might go unnoticed on any other day, but this was not just any day.
A few moments later, I started noticing something strange. My computer, which had been perfectly normal a few minutes ago, was now emitting a curious puff of smoke. At first, I thought it was the computer malfunctioning—it wasn’t entirely unusual for machines to break down in this building. But no… the smoke didn’t smell like the usual burnt electronics. It smelled sweet. Almost… like a cigar?
I glanced up from my desk, my eyes darting around the room in confusion. And that’s when I noticed something I hadn’t seen before: a faint glow from the crack in the door to the room next door—the Bahian’s office. It wasn’t just the smell of smoke; it was the unmistakable glow of flames licking the edge of the doorframe.
I jumped up from my desk in a panic, thinking perhaps I’d misjudged the severity of the situation. I flung open the door, only to be greeted by an inferno.
Yes, an inferno. The trash can in my boss’s office had been slowly consuming the papers and, apparently, a good chunk of the wall as well. Flames were creeping up the wooden panels like they had a personal vendetta against the office decor.
"Open the window!" I shouted to the office assistant, who was looking at me as if I’d just sprouted a second head. "Get something to put this out!"
We scrambled around the room, trying to find something—anything—that would put out the fire. I grabbed a stack of old newspapers, which was obviously not the ideal fire-extinguishing material, but it was all I had. Meanwhile, my Bahian boss was still in his own little world, utterly oblivious to the fact that his very cozy office was on fire. He was still muttering something about the socio-economic implications of rainforests or the history of samba in Salvador. Who knows?
After what felt like an eternity—though, in reality, it was probably only a couple of minutes—the fire was finally out. The smoke still hung in the air like an overzealous cloud, and I was left standing there, my heart racing, looking at the smoldering remnants of what used to be my boss’s “charming” office decor.
But the worst part? The damage to the wall. The fire had left an enormous blackened scar on the wooden paneling, a mark that would forever remind us of the time the office almost went up in flames. It wasn’t just a small burn mark. No, this was an artistic black smear that looked like a graffiti masterpiece from the wrong side of a Salvador alley.
I realized in that moment that we had a problem. Not just a fire problem—but a political problem. The Embaixador (the Ambassador, who worked just down the hall) was the most meticulous, no-detail-ignored, micro-managing type of boss imaginable. He would definitely notice the hole in the wall. A hole that could only be explained by the tragic event of an office fire caused by a cigarette—our cigarette—sitting in a trash can.
So, we did what any reasonable people would do: we covered it up.
I ran to the storage room and grabbed the biggest, most inconspicuous piece of furniture I could find: a massive wooden filing cabinet. And there we were, the team, pushing and shoving this behemoth of a cabinet across the floor, trying to position it just right so that it blocked the blackened stain without looking too obvious. We placed it just so—in the exact spot where the fire damage met the floor.
When we were finally done, the cabinet was not only blocking the ugly burn mark, but it was also slightly tilted. No, not tilted in the sense of “I didn’t put it in properly.” No. It was visually tilted—like the room itself was, well, off somehow. The perfect cabinet was suddenly an optical illusion. And I don’t know what happened next—whether it was the pressure, the smoke, or the absurdity of the situation—but we just had to pretend it wasn’t happening.
When the Ambassador walked into the office later that afternoon, he glanced around. He stopped at the filing cabinet, eyeing it with suspicion. “What’s this?” he asked, squinting as if expecting an answer that would involve actual filing.
My heart skipped a beat. "Ah, just reorganizing," I said, trying to sound as casual as possible. “You know how it is. Office improvements.”
He gave me a long look, then shrugged and walked away. Just like that, the flaming cigar incident was buried in the annals of office history.
To this day, whenever I pass by that slightly tilted filing cabinet, I can’t help but think of the Bahian researcher's cigar, the fire, and our little engineering solution. And though the fire was extinguished, there’s still that sense of something ever-so-slightly off about the room. Something about that cabinet. Something about the way it’s slightly out of alignment with the rest of the office.
But as long as the Ambassador never notices, I suppose we can all rest easy knowing that, in the grand scheme of things, sometimes the best solution to a problem is simply to cover it up... and maybe keep an eye on the trash can next time.