On our way home from running errands yesterday, Coleman and I were passed by a police car with flashing lights and a blaring siren. We didn’t think much of it, until we turned the corner onto our street. In the distance, we could see tons of flashing lights.
“I hope that’s not in front of our house!” Coleman said.
“No, I think it’s a few blocks down,” I guessed.
We drove closer and closer, in silence, and my stomach dropped to my toes when I realized that the flashing lights were, in fact, in front of our house. Five firetrucks and multiple emergency vehicles.
“Oh sh*t!” I yelled! We parked as close as we could, about a block away, since the street was barricaded, and it wasn’t until I speed-walked down to our house could I finally tell: they were not there for our house.
But, the house three down from us was on fire.
“What is going on?” Coleman asked. “Another fire?”
We quickly became the oglers that we hated a few days before, trying to sneak as close as we could to the house to watch the action. Our duplex-mates, who started the fire at our place a few days ago, came outside looking very relieved that they weren’t the only ones to cause such commotion this week.
As we stood there watching the firemen smash open windows on the second floor to put out the flames and blow out the smoke, it occurred to me: “I actually look pretty good today!”
Surely one of those firetrucks contains the same men who saw me in my snowflake jammies a few days ago. I stood around, casually looking at the men as they went back and forth from their trucks to the house. I waited for like 15 minutes.
No familiar faces.
No redemption… yet.
Not that I want there to be another fire, of course. But maybe, if it wasn’t too close to our house…