Through my windows I heard a woman brusquely say, “Call 911.” I looked outside and there was a good fire going in the trash. My first thought was saving my computer, but then I remembered the cracked, back-up prone hose in the back. I rushed out – in the ankle length skirt I was in – and there was no one about. The fire burned almost silently, but it was tall – about a person tall, leaping out of the trash and licking up a telephone pole.
Did the woman forget about the hose outside, and/or did the fire overwhelm her ability to be resourceful?
I hastened to the hose, turned the tap, and brought the flowing water to the fire. It was flowing weakly, because of the leaky, cloggy hose, but it was enough. I was standing in my long skirt, laughing, dowsing the flames.
When the property manager came out, it was mostly seething cinders. I called, “I’m a hero!” I was ecstatic; ‘stoked.’ He offered to take the hose from me, but I declined.
When the firemen came I told them I was a hero, too. They seemed a little bummed I had ‘stolen their fire,’ but stayed and wetted it and mashed it up. I could hear them from my studio talking about the food they saw: “Mm, roasted cabbage,” “Fried potatoes. Yum.”
Their hats transfixed me: a sort of bronzed olive color, and one was wearing leather suspenders.
After they were gone, the property manager was cleaning up the mess, and I came down and told him, “That was really fun.” He answered snarkily, “I’m glad you had a good time.”
The pic is from the day after the fire - the blue board where the fire had been.
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