I’m standing at my front window taking notes watching a fire across the street. Not only is it terrifying, it’s incredibly entertaining. I know, what a thing to admit, but haven’t you heard, candor is the new black.
Four trucks have taken over the street, lights flashing, men running out of every door in full, Towering Inferno, regalia.
Hoses are now being hauled, along with an assembly of axes. This is a huge high-rise, unlike my building that resembles an Amish barn, small and square, so the threat of impending doom looms.
I’m wondering how serious it really is, because the cavalry comes, no matter what since, you just never know, the New York City Fire Department taking no chances.
How could they after all they’ve seen.
I call downstairs to Farouk, the doorman, asking what he knows. He’s from the Islands so his English over the intercom, let’s say, isn’t exactly crystal clear. I did hear, keeds, so that’s enough for me.
I throw on clothes to be outside in case children come out in their pajamas, my imagination running wild. I could bring them all into my apartment and make hot cocoa, well, if I had any that is. That’s the trouble with writers, we’re constantly penning a screenplay, without supplies.
I then think, CVS is open on the corner, I can go buy some, along with cookies, candy and cake, hey, these are special circumstances remember, but when I try, a fire captain holds out his hand and says, “Saari Maah-dam, the schreet’s schut.”
“Is everyone okay?’ I ask in my best tax payer’s voice, but trying to get info from him is like Lucy trying to get that Buckingham Palace guard to smile.
Captain Crank, I’ll call him since his charm is down several quarts, might never smile again, but to cut him some slack, God only knows the horrors he’s seen, as September 11th swoons across both our screens.
So now I’m back at my front door smelling smoke but seeing no flames, figuring that’s a good sign.
After 40 minutes that feels like 40 days and 40 nights, all the firefighters come out without any keeds. Turns out a woman on 12, in the back, had a grease fire.
OOH…A WOMAN OF A CERTAIN AGE’S BIGGEST FEAR!
Even though she apparently put it out, in a building that size, when one smoke detector goes off, they all do, hence, four firetrucks, 50 feet of hose, a collection of axes Lizzie Borden would have admired, and a thin girl across the way, who couldn’t sleep, who saw it all.