 Rapid Wrath |
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I am paranoid and anxious about myriad things, but one of my true lifelong phobias and fears has been my house catching on fire. When I was a little girl and prayed hard all the time, I prayed that my little brother wouldn't get kidnapped while in the mall, that Captain Hook wouldn't slice through my pink window shade with his hook, that the zombies in the Thriller video wouldn't start dancing down our street, and that our house wouldn't catch on fire. Those were the big ones. While I'm over my fear of Captain Hook and zombies and am mildly less hysterical in my fear of the abduction of loved ones, I'm still pretty anal about so-called fire hazards. I never leave the washer or dryer running when I'm not home, and I will go back inside two and three times after leaving to make sure that I've unplugged the hair dryer and the straightening iron and the clothes iron and the coffee maker and that the oven and the stove are off and that the candles are blown out. Recently I left two candles burning on my stovetop when I wasn't home and upon realizing this, even though it was clear that all was safe and that the candles had just been burning serenely in their glass holders, I almost blacked out. I touch all of my stovetop burners at least twice before going to bed every night to make sure they're not still hot. I am terrified of my hot water heater, of the can of gasoline I have in my laundry room for the lawnmower, and certainly of the lawnmower itself. And my dad raised me to believe that a ceiling fan left on when you're not home is a potential whirring inferno of fiery doom. When I think about fire, I think about losing my journals and things that belonged to my grandparents like their old books or journals or jewelry. Before I think about those, I think about my pets, which I can't really think about or I feel like throwing up. My brother's girlfriend's house recently caught on fire. And do you want to know what caused it? Her dryer? Candles? Her stove? Her beloved cocker spaniel chewing on an extension cord? Did she leave her curling iron plugged in? Did some faulty wiring go sparkily awry? No. It was lightning. Lightning struck her house and set it on fire. I ask you. How much anxiety am I foolishly going to waste on obsessive-compulsively quadruple-checking all of my potential fire hazards all the time instead of just trying to be sanely dutiful about it, you know, like a normal person? None. None. Because fuck it all, no matter how careful I am, my house can just get struck by lightning. Lightning struck her roof, and it shot down the wall through the dishwasher wiring, and her house caught on fire. She didn't realize from the other side of the house that her kitchen was on fire until a neighbor banged on her front door and yelled at her to get out. She ran outside and saw a giant cloud of smoke and fire billowing from the backside of her house. Smoke and flames shot out of the vents and ten fire trucks quickly arrived. After her kitchen was destroyed by fire and smoke and an exploding dishwasher and the surge of fire hoses, water from the dishwasher line proceeded to shoot into her house for the next three hours while the water company took its sweet time getting there to shut off the water. It was distressing. The dog is okay. She is okay. Her house is not okay. Her stuff is not okay. Everything made of fabric in the house, including her bed, her bed linens, her towels, her furniture, and her very expensive clothes are not okay, and they never will be. As for the rest of her things, who knows? She has no clothes left except for what she was wearing during the fire, and they smell toxic now. She borrowed a t-shirt, some underwear, and some running shorts from my sister so she could return to the house the morning after to start making lists of things that are ruined and things that might be ruined but might not be and to deal with the men who'd come to wet-vac all of the water out because the insurance company told her they were going to try to save the floors. Apparently insurance companies want you to try and save everything. Which is understandable but also very annoying when they want to save things that are clearly destroyed. Or worse yet, tell you that you need to try to wash your clothes in some special Febreze-inspired solution to at least try and get the smell out. As if you have nothing else to worry about and nothing more important to spend your time on but that clearly futile endeavor. It's easy to say that things are things and that everything has a replacement value. But the truth is that everything doesn't. Most things do, sure. Not people, obviously. And not pets. And not things that belonged to grandparents, that dissolve in water or flame, that are precious. Not certain things that are so infused with memories of people who aren't here anymore that it hurts with a fierce sting when they're lost. As the hours passed, we tried to move some things into rooms that were less wet to try to save them if possible, and my little brother tried to sweep out some of the water so fervently that he approached my brother's girlfriend with a sad look on his face with a broom that had snapped in two in his hand. "I'm really sorry," he reported, "I broke your broom." We eventually went outside because the smell was overpowering, it got dark and obviously the power wasn't on, and the kitchen ceiling was falling down in loud crashes. What's left of her house was boarded up to keep out looters, and we all ended up at my parents' house. We ate shrimp and fish and white chocolate raspberry cake and brownies and pasta that my mom had cooked for the family dinner we were supposed to have that night. Instead of a family dinner, we had family tears and hugs and and innapropriate jokes and dog holding and the drinking of Corona salvaged from her fridge. My little brother announced that his boycott of God shall continue. I've said it before and I'll say it again: This girl is the best thing that's ever happened to my brother. She's a good person, and she didn't deserve this. At first, I wanted to hate her because she was so blonde, tiny, friendly, stylish, and aerobicized, but I realized early on that it's impossible to. I love her very much, we all love her, and it sucks that this has happened to her. That is all.  My sister and brother, bleary-eyed at the scene.
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© Copyright 2006 elb |
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