Goodness, Gracious…
April 18th, 2009Since some of you will probably hear from others and no doubt be interested in what happened, I thought I’d share some photos and the story.
Earlier this evening we had a kitchen fire in our house. First and foremost everyone and (almost) everything is fine. Here’s what happened.
…
I was stepping out to get some goods (read: booze) from the Chinese run ramshackle convenience store around the corner (or “chino,” to use the parlance of our times), and as usual I asked my roommate Isaak, the only other person home at the time, if he needed anything. The weird thing is we always joke about me bringing him back “una china” (Chinese girl) and I don’t think he has ever actually asked me to bring him something, but I ask nonetheless. Isaak had been prepping food at the time and was about to start cooking dinner, but decided to turn off the electric burners (but leaving the pans in place) and come with me, something else he had never done before.
A round trip visit to the chinos takes less than 10 minutes and we conversed while Isaak smoked a cigarette. When we got back, he went ahead down the long hallway to the kitchen and I lagged behind checking our wifi router in the living room (it frequently gives us trouble), when I heard Isaak yell, “Justin, corre (run)!” Not really knowing what to expect I walked through the living room and peered down the hall to see Isaak standing aghast facing the doorway to the kitchen which was out of sight around the corner. What he could see, I couldn’t. What I could see though, was his face and the wall behind him bathed in glowing orange light as smoke began to creep along the ceiling towards him.
I dropped my bag of goods (read: booze), ran down the hall and shot my head around the corner. “Que hacemos, tio! (What do we do, man!)” The stove was ablaze and black sooty smoke was billowing out the open kitchen window. “Llama a los bomberos (call the fire department),” I said, turning on my heels. The fire probably could have been snuffed out with a bucket of water at this point, but having worked in a kitchen and knowing the explosive nature of mixing Dihydrogen monoxide with burning oil, I opted for one of the fire extinguishers in the buildings stairwell instead.
Now, when I said we have a long hallway, I mean we have a long hallway, and at this point it had never felt longer. I tore down it, through the living room, around the corner, out the front door and up half a flight of stairs to grab the first visible fire extinguisher. With the red mass under my right arm, pulling the pin with my free hand, I blew past Isaak, unsure if he even moved in the 30 or so seconds I was gone, and dropped to one knee a few feet from the blaze. I’m not sure if the fumes were getting to me, but it was really pretty I must say, I almost envied Isaaks extra time to watch it, but it needed to die. I pointed the nozzle dead center and squeezed — nothing. I looked down, the key pin like a ring on my left index finger, the handle moving freely - another squeeze. It was dead. “Joder, tio! Que no funciona! (Fuck, man! It doesn’t work!)” Isaak’s eyes grew wider and I noticed the cell phone at his ear as I raced by again. I think I heard him finally say something in reaction, but I was already out of ear shot.
Not enjoying the surprise the last one had for me, I checked the downstairs extinguishers gauge before even dismounting it. The needle firmly in the middle. Green. Good. I flew back through the front door and noticed the lights were off. “Now why did I do that,” I wondered to myself fumbling for the switch. I slapped two different switches in passing before realizing. Just my luck, more nothing. What a sight though. The only light in the house now was the wispy dancing orange glow at the end of the hall and Isaak still frozen in its center. He said something about not getting through to the fire department yet, but I knew that in a moments time they’d only be needed to check that everything was ok.
Woosh! Blackness and new chaos. Impossible to see or breath. Fumbling in the dark for the door as hot smoke from the extinguished flames filled the room. I tried to take little sips of air but could feel my nostrils burning. Perhaps unintelligently, we’ve always kept a plastic vase with a bouquet of plastic cooking utensils right next to the stove, and I knew instantly what was hitting our lungs. Coughing and spitting I made it to my bedroom window for some air. I looked around the corner and followed the smoke up as it billowed out of the kitchen window and into the night. A neighbor directly above, and partially obscured by the smoke, was shouting “Hay un incendio (There’s a fire)!” Through some more black phlegm and deep breaths, I assured her it was out.
With t-shirts over our mouths we systematically opened all the windows on our way to the front door. The “bomberos” were coming, more neighbors were spilling into the stairwell and I was throwing the remaining circuit breakers to make sure all power was off. Isaak’s gaze had completely transformed now and I could see he finally had a moment to feel worry. He disappeared for a moment back into the house as I sat in the stairwell writing a text message to our other roommates. When he returned suddenly with a full glass of water, making sure I had some to drink, I could tell from his coughing that he had gone all the way back into the kitchen to get it.
Before I could even finish sending the text message, the firefighters and police were in the house. The sound of crashing wall tiles as they checked for hidden things smoldering. Questions. Answers. Sooty boot prints. They assured us it was out and left almost as quickly as they came.
After the smoke cleared and the lights were back on we got to assess the situation for ourselves. Strangely I found myself chuckling inquisitively as I inspected every molten blob and charred black lump.
“Que cojones era esto (What the hell was this)!?”
I found the aftermath kind of fascinating, but I could see that Isaak did not. I decided to grab my camera for record keeping and to lighten the mood. It may have technically been his fault, but it was still an accident and I wanted to make sure he knew that’s how I saw it. Blaming or castigating him at that point wasn’t going to get the kitchen fixed any faster and I was just glad we were ok.
In the end, it took us a few hours to get the hallway desooted and the kitchen back into a usable state, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone scrub so furiously or for so long. Something tells me though that our little fateful break of tradition when going for goods (read: booze) will probably have been for the first and last time.
“Isaak, me voy al chino… quieres una china?”
- Justin Metz
…and it’s been a long time coming!