News Flash: Fires Suck (and Thank God for Horny Firemen!)

Like most days, it started just like any other day.

A night of counseling dear west coast film peops suffering from the rebuff of Black Monday (aka the day they found out that the films made by re-mortgaging their houses did not get into Sundance) left me exhausted the next day, and still in bed at 11 a.m. That’s when I heard what I thought was some angry fourteen-year old drunk and skipping school, breaking glass things out on the sidewalk. “Obnoxious little fucker,” I thought. When the mess he was making and breaking started smelling like burning rubber, I hurled myself out of bed, ready to give him a feisty Brooklyn Irish yelling. That’s when I saw the brown smoke billowing into my living room. To self: “Shit, did I leave my incense burning?” A quick look out the window confirmed no, this wasn’t just a little Nag Champa. Flames and smoke leaping out of the apartment downstairs put the old Amagdlya into fighting flight.

Talk to self out loud. Summon all elementary school lessons. Call 911 and scream calmly. Spell street while putting on the sluttiest jeans possible, the ones that leave ass hanging out while standing. Be sure to wear a thin sweater without a bra. Think about grabbing G5 and 50 cubic feet of your life’s work, then open door and get knocked back by wall of smoke. Re-prioritize. Recall December 2000 San Juan flight stranded on tarmac next to firefighter forced to retire at 32 due to smoke inhalation-induced Emphysema. Grab makeup bag, iPod and a thong (what the fuck?). Grab whimpering biting Chihuahua. Close eyes, take deep breath and fly down invisible stairs.

Once on sidewalk stand beside downstairs Venezuelan DJ neighbor holding his Dachshund Coco. “Hey.” “Hey.” Dogs sniff each other. Wait for fire trucks and watch flames. Minute one, two, three, four. Discuss with Venezuelan DJ the value of all our computers, audio and video equipment. Remember other dog in apartment underneath fire. Minute seven… ten; recall protests against Brooklyn firehouse closings and start to get pissed, consider fighting fire by self. Fire trucks heard. Fire trucks can’t get through due to some double-parked asshole oil truck. Run to asshole and maybe scream something (memory redacted).



Five fire trucks arrive and firemen hunks hoist mountains onto backs and strut off. Primal female instinct kicks in and become weak-kneed damsel in distress. (Note to self that, camera or hose, men with equipment are hot) As firehunks swagger into building, recall "Heroes of 9-11" nudie calendars. Almost faint as they start eagerly bashing in all windows and throwing out furniture from various floors. Eyes flutter to my own windows and everything I own.

Mission #1. Be sure to get on their good side.

“Can you not use water in my apartment unless you really really have to?”

Receive dazed look. Ramble about client jobs, life's work.
Venezuelan DJ chimes in about endless computers.

"Which apartment?"
Bat eyelashes, maybe even have a quivering lip that may or may not be voluntary.
"Third on right." Marshal nods.

Repeat #3R plea to every fireman you see heading in.

Mission #2: Think of Somebody Other than Yourself.
Mention to fire marshal the annoying dog Toby on first floor that always attacks your dog. Fire marshal insists dog ran out. "No way, that dog's a freak. It’s still in there cowering." Receive shrug.

An hour later, flames are gone and it’s all smoke detail, killing burning wool, and a lot of male back patting, hugging and general We-Killed-the-Fire camaraderie at the truck. For the 10th time, mention annoying dog Toby in apartment underneath fire— "you know, the one that now has a flood?" Look around and see that posse of three firehunks is sipping coffee with that look in their eye... and it's directed at you.


"You in 3R?"
I nod, and ask fire marshal if I can get the dog now. But the words aren't even out of my mouth and the tall one of the posse rises to the primal male cause of performance and bounds to the door. "I got it, chief."

Moments later, he emerges with a puff of shaking gray fur wrapped in a towel. Tby was mellow. Even Toby suddenly knew not to be annoying.





Mission #3: Bring it Back to Yourself

With new horned-up firemen posse on your side, think about G5, 50 cubic feet of oevre and 750 square of crap again.

"So, is-- my apartment okay?"
They nod a little too knowingly.
"Can I get in there quick?"
Before the words are out of your mouth they bound up again.
"We're taking her, chief."
You, the deer in headlights, follow them.

Once inside your apartment, realize that your desk was covered with "Save Porno" leaflets. As you try to find what you thought you were looking for but can now not remember (and thus grab another thong), the Firemen posse is browsing the slutty gallery pictures in your living room, further assessing your character. He looks at one of a tuxedo-d guy in college being fed by women. "I like that one."

Lesson: Porn saves lives... or at least pooches and your drapes.



Once they leave, the Venezuelan, the Puerto Rican, the AmerIrish Mitchissmo and the Haitian (the flame-bombed victim) were left to stand and scratch their heads. You all trade cell phone numbers and dog-sitting duties. Thanks to nagging litigating lawyer ex-boyfriend, you had insurance. The only one with insurance.

Send ex-boyfriend mushy and grateful e-mail.

2 Days later, when the 5-man cleaning crew arrives to clean every last soot-covered magazine, pillow and sock and finds the stash of cheesy (like, way cheesy) Lesbian porn your ex-boyfriend jokingly hid for Valentine's Day in your dog's cart and they giggle and whisper, you wish your Spanish was more up to speed.

Send ex-boyfriend scathing e-mail.



5 days later, It still smells like a fire's burning from 2 blocks away.
It takes days to realize how lucky you are. And the gratitude comes and goes.
Fire is scary. Thank you, firehunks.