FIRE KID
I was awakened by a “boom” at 4 A.M. this morning. At first, I thought I just dreamt it, but then I see some light seeming to dance against my wall when the blinds flutter from the fan. I look outside and it turns out a car is literally on fire just across the street.
The flames are shooting 15 to 20 feet in the air, with new little explosions—and more booms—that send the flames shooting higher occurring each time it hits a new pocket of gasoline or something flammable.
I swear I can feel the heat in my room.
(Beat.)
I call 911. I tell them what’s happening and where, and then I hang up. That’s it. I want to stay on the line. I want them to say, “Stay on the phone until help gets here,” but it isn’t my car.
They don’t even ask for my name. I’m just out. All of them having their little emergency, and I’m no longer a part of it.
(Beat.)
Some tiny piece of me—just for a second—wishes I started it, because there would be police and reporters and…I would still be part of it. I don’t really wish I’d started the fire.
I’m not the kind of person who starts fires or even wants to start them, except when I was in fifth grade and I set an ant on fire with a magnifying glass…
(Beat.)
But don’t they see? I’m not asking for a lot. Just a gesture. So maybe staying on the phone with me would tie up the line.
Maybe some little kid’s dad is having a heart attack, or a woman is giving birth on her kitchen floor or a motorcycle has lost an argument with a 16-wheeler and someone on the scene needs to be talked through CPR.
Of course I’m not as important as that.
But maybe when the fire truck gets here—and the good thing about living 6 blocks from a fire station is it takes two minutes for them to get there with their lights flashing—maybe a little nod to my second floor window, maybe a “thanks, kid” under your breath… I’d feel a little bit included and maybe just a tiny bit less alone.