2a.m. Eastern Standard time, I fumble for coverings, casual comforts over sheets and bedspreads. Fly out the door and crash with the night air. The blackness is interrupted by pinpricks of light and the full moon is odd shaped like a glass orb-fortune telling, mine, I imagine. Accuracy in future predictions are those flakes of gold that swirl and sparkle in clear liquid filled shapes. Wrecking balls are fire in buildings and that is where I am headed now.
I loosen my grip on the steering wheel and release my shoulders, level. The figure in red has disappeared from my dashboard. In my mind it is every person I have ever helped- the hurt, the battered, the bleeding, despairing, crying, stoic and brave.
The message on my cell phone is there still, fire in an apartment complex...scant details. I will know more soon enough. The engine roars, vibrates as I approach the intersection. The green light, a point, morphs into a circle and I press down hard on the accelerator. The flicker of yellow gold reflects off the hood as I pass under the overhang of the caution signal. I gotta beat the red. See green.
My wife says Batman never looked so competent in the reds, blacks, tans, reflective light strips and Xs. She says this marks the spot where firemen, policemen, city workers and my crew, the volunteers from the Red Cross, become the treasures. She gave me the golden globe last week. Placed it on the headboard as I slept. Found it there. It reminds me to search for gold inside of myself, shine brightly and avoid the pitfalls that come from tough surroundings, living in glass balls, getting shaken up. I think she should have included soldiers in her Batman listing. I think they are like me in a way. I keep driving towards elements out of control. I notice that I am sweating, -22 degrees Celsius outside- heat in the cab is off. Preparedness is only one layer in the turn of the rubric when you walk into the misalignment.
On site I wrestle with the duffel bag, who really has a utility belt in EMS, and slide into my "cape", a bright red vest with a white cross and block lettering. I fit the cap on the back of my head and yank down on the brim. Feels good. My mind locks and loads into this choice, this hat at 2:32 a.m. Indecision is the magic and pleasure of court jesters or shopping mall excursion. It has no place here. The other hats, father, son, professional, neighbor, husband are hooked on the hat stand of my collective and diverse identity.
I skid to a halt in my thoughts and and stop the stride near a young woman with a child nestled into her slight frame. She is shivering. Her face is blackened with soot , a mask forged in smoke and fire. I grow close, there is no real moving, and wrap a blanket around her shoulders. Two perfect lines made from the rivulets of tears glow pasty white next to smudges, shades of grey of her face and the circles, large green traffic lights, of eyes. I breath and dive in. Her expression says bewildered as she stares transfixed at a home now crumbled and fierce with flames. I draw her away.
She is rubbing her lower lid with one slim blistered finger as I try to find out her name, if she is OK. She is watching the path of a stretcher, now, strung with IV tubes. Another mask, oxygen is strapped to a face that must be familiar to her as I hear her gasp and her hand flies to her throat. The boy tucked into the folds of her stretched knitted sweater is so quiet. Fire creeps then roars through structures obliterating windows and doors, licking frames, deadly but not beyond the abilities of heroes. Science of elements tucked in a back pocket of our minds in the event that gas, or chemicals complicate. Every roll of the dice brings a new configuration.
Stella from one floor down, I think.
"Oh God, Oh God, is she OK?"
"Steady," he says. "What's your name?" He is dressed in kindness but I am with Stella in my thoughts.
Stella has a voice like a Mockingjay, melodic and sweet.
I heard her sing in an imitation that turned to interpretation of a popular tune.Through the thin slices of pine floor boards, I listened to her belt out the song as if the bills were music sheets to be mastered by the instrument of her vocal chords. I did not recognize the melody as it bounded into her own invention, beautiful, just as I knocked at the door. We drank from heavy mugs. Mine had a dishwasher worn icon of a tower: Eiffel, CN, Pisa, Burj Kalifa, Empire... one of those. The coffee was instant. We were hoping to rise above ground level too. On the shiny side of her mug was the logo of her 7a.m. to 7 p.m. existence. The reason she could pay the bills and sing, I suppose.
She had opened up to me her news headlines, The Abandonment and the Found. I had shared with her a few articles and infestation of my own. My hand fluttered to the base of my throat as my stomach churned and my words ran dry.
"Ohh no, " I breath...I feel the firm but soft touch. Kindness is on my shoulder. Ethan squirms and groans and I swell in the happiness that he is there resting against my shoulder. I turn to the man in the red cape, um ,oh, I mean vest and feel relief like millions of tiny bubbles caressing the most sensitive spot, the pad of my finger tip and moving up over my skin.
***
I place my hand on her shoulder and she stops swaying. Her eyes are now alert with the sound of the child. She speaks to him softly.
I am the team lead. The scars, slashes of lights, slick pavement, and buildings that fold and furnace exacerbate the sense of urgency. The ladders length, motorized to swing is attached to the best getaway car, a fire engine, and rivals Bonny and Clyde "s vehicular transports. The construction worker on the top floor makes it out. No time to set up the nets. The police have cordoned off the area as systems begin to form in the face of fire and sometimes we just go with the gut feeling against misanthropic flames. Too bad fire, the damaging kind, is more than just the myth of dragons breathing.
***
I approach the team lead, the woman and the child. Walking out of hell is never easy.
"Hey big guy, I'm Willis. You're gonna be driv'n that truck soon."
The boy takes the colouring book I offer. His eyes bore into me. What does he see?
***
Nice man in red, stains on his clothes, Ok other man got me out of the building, TRUST yes. Same people, good, help. OK. It was so hot hot ... Eyes burning can't breath <intake of breath> Mom ??!!??? Brought me to mom. Yes, I remember. Safe !
***
I sprinkle the corrugated metal of the flatbed truck with sticks of yellow, orange and red. They crisscross jumbled on the pan of the black flatbed where she sits, shoeless, swinging her legs. The little guy unwinds himself from the trust that is MOM. He reaches for the lemon yellow, then peacock blue gradually supplanting solid blank spaces with streaks of colour. The crayon leaps and careens outside of design guide lines. He clutches each crayon more tightly in a fist. As we visit and start to talk, he loosens his grasp on the crayon and the colour floods into the interior spaces. He circumvents the tear made by his earlier efforts and smooths it over with his hand. I rummage around the truck for for a flat board and come up with a piece of plywood for a table.
"You're doing good kid."
He offers me a smile of sorts. I want to tell him that his stuffed animals, video games, favorite shirt and money chest are neatly stacked in the cab of the truck. All I have is a plank of board, a book for colour, caring, accommodation. His smile is the greatest return.
***
Lidiya takes the water that I offer to her. She hands it to her son who is looking up at Willis smiling. Good!
I give her a second bottle from the pack. We begin the kind of conversation that nails down the next small beginnings after the collapse. The fire has let go of its hold against the weapons of spray and the intelligence and technique of the fire officials. Their moves are as calculated and polished as a Metropolitan Opera . Fire is an unpredictable and vicious foe. I can hear the human chords of deficits and gains as we hope for the wind to die down and approach a tall man with his head in his hands. Lydia and the boy are on their way to the hotel as arranged. - respite from a storm.
2:45 a.m. turns to 6 then 7 and the fires are finally under control. The emergency teams and a few bystanders circle the contained morass. The fire chief tells us that everyone got out as far as he knows.
I know that I've been held in a too tight embrace by Katrina and Sandy. Felt their sloppy kisses and the bite, cut of their sharp teeth on lips and throat. I left a piece of me and my team in New York. Slave Lake fires, floods in Alberta and Haiyan have challenged level crossings.
Midnight was long ago receding in the face of the dawn of a new day.
I swing my duffel bag onto the passenger seat, fasten the seat belt sign and hit the road. The beep and red light figure stays silent on the dashboard. ....Used to be Paradise By the... .I was just a kid. Hmmmm mmm ...the dashboard light, aww Meat Loaf .
The porch lights tell me I'm home. My wife is framed by the soft light of the living room window. She is as strong as me but different and I will lean on her now - just for a little while, for a bit of rest. The door opens in another place. The second door to a Home is well filled, well designed and sturdy, a hat rack in the corner. The rack , where I hang my hats, is the people, professional and personal that support me. Support all of us ... They are who we are gonna call if the ghosts bust in.
This is a work of creative nonfiction, a genre that is part fiction and part non. The ratio of imagined to real varies in accordance with the design of the piece and the individual style of the author.
I did have an opportunity to interview one of the members of the Red Cross. My next blog will be nonfiction for those that like a choice and it will circle that conversation. This is the creative piece that sprang from the meeting. The character builds pertain to the idea of being an emergency worker or soldier and are wholly fictional. PST is an important issue in our times and is touched on as a part of the thematic.
Taken on a blue sky day for a Nikon Nuance moment by me.
all rights reserved Donna Thompson copyright 2014 . See also The Glitch Factory
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