Shitty, Shitty Bang, Bang
The ninth installment in Tales from the Westside
A friend of mine lives at the top of a hill in a house that has views of downtown. But unlike the modern structures that have begun to populate Sylvan Heights, her house was built in the 1940s and has stood the test of time. Fitted into the hillside, it fronts a narrow, dead-end street that’s perpetually filled with cars, and this makes it a bitch to navigate, especially when you need to turn around.
It was a typical Saturday night in July; even at 10:00 p.m. the temperatures lingered in the mid-80s, and the humidity was so intense it felt like my entire body was being waterboarded. All that stood between us and the steam bath outside was the air conditioning in my car and as I pulled into her driveway, I could feel my friends’ hesitation to exit the vehicle.
Thanking me for the ride, she stepped out into the soggiest air on earth and promptly screamed, “Oh my God! That house is on fire!”
“What?” I yelled. Jumping out of the car, I saw it; the house directly across the street was being devoured by a rapidly spreading inferno.
Bang! An enormous fan of angry orange-red flames broke through a window on the second floor, the sound of exploding glass ricocheting through the muggy night air like buck shot. With every passing second the flames grew wilder, like a living, breathing monster that was devouring everything in its path. Waves of black smoke joined the dance, licking their way up the brick walls before rising over the roofline and morphing into a massive grey cloud of toxicity that obliterated the sky.
As my friend whipped out her phone to call 911, I whipped mine out to capture the scene. I’ve always wondered if I’d have the presence of mind and quick reflexes required to document an emergency and I have to say, I was proud of myself for doing just that. But the moment of self-congratulation was short lived as the fire reached the power lines above the house, making the noxious malodor even more intense.
I could hear the wail of sirens in the distance, and I knew it was only a matter of minutes before they reached the narrow, dead-end street, effectively trapping me for what could be hours. “I’d better get out of here,” I choked, waving at my friend who was still on the phone.
Jumping back behind the wheel, I threw the car in reverse and hit the gas a little too hard which sent me flying backwards a little too fast through the billowing cloud of smoke and right into the front fender of a parked car. Bang! The sound of breaking glass and the crunch of metal was undeniable. Now, in my defense, the car was black and camouflaged by a billowing curtain of dark smoke which made it, in effect, invisible. Plus, my nervous system was on high alert and in my haste to get the hell out of there, I guess I lost my mind a little.
Driving forward several yards, I got out and ran back towards the scene of my crime, screaming obscenities I won’t repeat here. But as the sirens from a pair of Fire trucks announced their imminent arrival, I realized the absurdity of trying to leave a note on the windshield or calling the police, who had bigger fish to fry. Pivoting back to plan number one, getting the hell out of there, I jumped back behind the wheel, called my friend and asked if she knew the car’s owner. Answering in the affirmative, she promised to connect us so I could confess my sin and hand over my insurance info. Then I floored it. Swerving right to avoid the oncoming Fire engines, I quickly rounded the corner and barreled down the hill toward home.
The light was red at 37th and Charlotte which was a relief; I could finally catch my breath. But as two more Fire trucks came barreling towards the intersection, I realized that dream was dead. And putting the pedal to the metal once again, I pulled my car as far to the right as possible, narrowly escaping a collision with one of the trucks as it sharply rounded the corner.
Five minutes later I arrived my house; shaken, stirred and in need of a drink. Two shots of Tequilla later, I called my friend for an update. The blaze was still raging, but the homeowner had been at work, so at least he was alive. “I explained everything to my neighbor,” she said, as she shared the car owners’ info. “She’s expecting your call.” Finally able to let go of the fear that I’d be charged with a hit and run, I settled down on my couch with a third shot of Tequilla and tried to calm the fuck down.
It’s been a few days since the raging inferno and my fender bender altered what would otherwise have been a typical Saturday night in July. If my friend and I hadn’t arrived at the moment we did, the fire could have gotten out of control. It could have jumped to the houses next door. Somebody could have been hurt. And because my 2010 Subaru Forrester had nary a scratch on it (What a tank!), and I have full coverage, both cars are going to be OK. I feel terrible for the guy who’s house almost burned to the ground, but I’m glad I won’t be charged as a felon and that I’m fully insured.
Even though this story has a happy ending it still leads me to wonder; do crazy things like this happen to other people or do they only happen to me? The jury is still out on this, but I am sure of two things: Every day holds a new story in the life of this vagabond writer and there’s never a dull moment here on the West Side of town.