I guess it's about freakin' time I wrote something again.
I've been...trapped, see. Not by what one would call “writer's block.” Nope. In fact, it's quite the opposite. There's SO much to write about that I've become overwhelmed by it. And as one day slips by, then the next, and the next, so many stories pile up that I don't know how to tackle them all. It's akin to having an administrative job and going on vacation—oh, sure, you're out there enjoying the beach, pardner, but no one's tending to your stuff while you're gone. The pile on your desk continues to grow, and upon your return you realize that you didn't have a vacation at all. What you did was POSTPONE work for a week or two, not ELIMINATE it. Hence, you still have that two weeks' work to take care of—along with today's work and tomorrow's work...
Well, hold on. Now that I've actually written down my analogy, I find, once again, that I am full of shit. I mean, true enough—there ARE a lot of things that have happened about which I'd like to write. But the act of writing about them can't really be compared to a three-foot stack of personnel files or purchasing reports. So, to continue, there's a great joke that starts like this:
Two grownups, a tween, a five year-old and a toddler walk into the zoo...
And ends like this:
“Thank God I had that little pan of water!”
The in-between, as is the rest of the joke, I fear, is absolutely true.
It's Sunday morning, and I'm up before everyone else. This happens virtually every day, as my relationship with sleep has historically been a little dicey. I wander around the place for a bit and take stock: We're doing pretty well. We're down to less than a dozen boxes, things seem to be getting put where they need to be, and all three children appear to be breathing normally. Good. This is something I can build on. Yes.
We've been talking about getting over to Prospect Park, which is only three blocks from our apartment, but have yet to do so. I begin to formulate a plan. I like to do this, as J well knows. I often emerge from my bathroom office, laptop in hand, and announce things like “I've booked us a flight to Cabo. We leave this afternoon.” Or “you are gonna LOVE the new TV, guys!” Today's goal is a bit more modest. I think I'd like to take everyone to the zoo. There's a zoo in Prospect Park, and I know without a doubt that Liam and Harper will love it and that Molly will too (despite her attempts to prove otherwise, she's still got some kid left in her—mercifully). So once everyone is up and around, I proclaim, “LET US EAT, FOR SOON WE WILL GO TO...THE ZOO!” This edict is met with exactly the level of enthusiasm for which I'd hoped. The kids (well, two of them) squeal with delight and begin running in circles as fast as they can. (This continues, of course, until Harper becomes bored with it after two laps and Liam generates enough centrifugal force to fling himself uncontrollably against the wall or something.) J and Molly roll their eyes—they're used to it—but seem to be cool with the idea as well.
The zoo idea is not a new one, nor can I claim it as mine. J and I had actually talked yesterday about purchasing a family membership to the NY Wildlife Conservation Society. This would allow us unlimited access to the Prospect Park Zoo, the New York Aquarium, the Queens Zoo, and the gigantonormous Bronx Zoo. (If you've never been to the Bronx Zoo, imagine Rhode Island but with animal exhibits instead of cities and towns. It's a little bigger than that.) So, I jump online and buy the membership. There's a message that pops up that says, “The next screen will be your confirmation. You may print it out and use it for up to 30 days from now to gain entrance into the parks while you await your membership card in the mail. BE SURE TO PRINT IT NOW, BECAUSE IT WILL APPEAR ONLY ONCE.”
Man, I hate that shit. If you've EVER bought anything online, you know what kind of stress this causes. God forbid they e-mail you something, right? No! Instead, you get this veiled threat...this last-minute free-throw kind of pressure. And you become, if your'e like me, CONVINCED you're going to fuck something up when you try and print the thing.
So I proceed cautiously. I wait before I hit the “continue” button until I've hooked the Mac to the printer. I know the printer is working, because I just used it the other day. I know the Mac and it get along fine, despite the printer being an HP. I connect the USB cable, check the status, and see that yes—everything is grooooovy. I hit “continue.” It continues...it brings up the confirmation page. There doesn't seem to be a ticking clock at the top, counting down to the doomsday of my not being able to print it. So I've got time to troubleshoot once more, which reveals nothing out of the ordinary.
Cable? Check.
Printer on? Check.
Paper in printer? Check.
(See what I mean here? Holy crap...how many times when you go to print something do you become a raging lunatic? Never! Unless...UNLESS there's a message that tells you you're only going to have one shot at it! Aaaargh! I think...no, I'm SURE that the web designers who put this stuff together like this are very, very good friends with the cops who had me pull the dinosaur truck over in the middle of 6th Avenue. Jesus, I can just see their poker games now.)
So, after a checklist that rivals the pre-flight routine of launching a goddamn SPACE SHUTTLE, I hit the “print” button.
Nothing.
I wait.
Nothing.
I check the printer's status. It says it's idle. WTF? How can it be idle? I just sent it a goddamn document! What? WHAT? I try and minimize Firefox.
Nothing.
Firefox, it seems, has locked up. Completely. And so have I. My jaw, that is. Locked up completely. I am biting down so hard I can hear my teeth disintegrating in my mouth. This is great. Oh, this is fucking PERFECT. I do what comes naturally...I go to J.
R: Fuck this.
J: (as if she expects it) What?
R: It won't fucking print.
J: Why not?
R: Why not? If I knew that, I'd know how to fix it! Goddammit!
J: Did you try force-quitting Firefox?
R: What? No! I can't! The fucking page will only be displayed ONCE! Goddammit! Why do they DO this????? If I force-quit, it'll be gone forever! Aaaaarrrrgh!
J: There's gotta be some way...or...
R: ...or what?
J: Well, wait. You're saying that if you can't print, and we still want to go to the zoo...
R: ...yep. We'd have to pay admission, despite me just HAVING paid 150 bucks for...ADMISSION.
J: Aw, shit.
At this point, I notice that the kids have tuned in to the conversation. Harper, always acutely engaged when stress arises, asks:
H: We can't go to the zoo?
R: I don't know, honey...I can't print the tickets.
H: So, get other tickets. (This carries an implicit “duh, Dad.”)
R: It's not that easy...look, we'll go to the zoo sometime, but we may have to wait for our other tickets in the mail...
Liam is on to me as well.
L: I waaaaaaaaaannna go to the zooooooooooooooo.
R: I know, dude. We will.
L: (hurling himself to the floor) I waaaaaaaaaaaana gooooooooo to the zooooooooooo! (tears now)
H: Why can't we go to the zoo? You promised we'd go to the zoo! (tears here too)
J: (trying to help) Look, maybe we can go do something else fun today...
H/R: We waaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnaaaaaa gooooooooo to.......
R: I KNOW! I KNOW! I'M SORRY! THE THING WON'T PRINT! THERE'S NOTHING I CAN DO ABOUT IT!
At this point, there's an ever-so-brief moment of silence wherein the five of us (Molly's been lingering in the doorway listening to this charming meltdown) exchange eye contact, realize there's no hope, and retreat to various parts of the house. (Well, Liam actually just stays on the floor, writhing and crying.) I go back to the office and to the Mac. I'm not sure what I'm planning to try, but I need to get away from everyone. I'm so embarrassed. Why do I open my big mouth? Again, I'm reminded of a play—this time, it's Shelly Levene from GLENGARRY GLEN ROSS:
LEVENE: Never open your mouth until you know the SHOT.
I could have kept the plan to myself, purchased the membership, failed to print it, and never announced the zoo trip. Of course, Murphys' Law prevails in situations like this: had I taken the aforementioned prudent steps, there would have been no difficulty printing the voucher and everything would HAVE BEEN JUST FINE. Leave it to me.
I'm sitting forlornly at the desk, staring blankly at the still-unprinted voucher mocking me on the screen. I certainly don't want to look at THAT any longer, so I shift-Apple key-Q to force-quit Firefox. The browser shuts down. And no sooner than it does, the printer whirrs to life. Miracle! Ten seconds later, I'm bounding through the house, waving the voucher in the air like the flag of liberty in a Delacroix. We're going to the zoo! We're going to the zoo! Joy returns to the Cowden household! Thank heavens for little victories like this!
Now let's pause for a moment to deconstruct the initial proclamation regarding the impending zoo trip from good ol' Dad. Notice, if you will, that it begins with the three words “let us eat.” This becomes intensely significant, and will divert us for a few paragraphs from the story of the zoo. Jesus, I'm starting to sound like an Albee character. (If you don't get this joke, you're fortunate enough never to have been a theatre major.)
J has described cooking in our new kitchen as analogous to cooking while camping. It is an exhaustive procedure, whereby one cannot use more than one electrical appliance at a time (because the power will go out if one does), we are still unsure where anything is located, and we have exactly nine inches of counter space in the entire room. This, coupled with trying to meet the wildly varied demands of all three children when they're asked what they'd like for lunch, can prove obscenely daunting. For these reasons, I decide simply to warm up some leftover pizza in the oven. They'll all be happy enough with that, and if they're not I will threaten to leave them at home while the rest of us go see all of the wonderful and diverse animal life at the zoo. (Works every time.)
I've never used this oven, as it's been 740 degrees outside, but when I turn it on and stick my hand inside it seems to warm up as requested. Good. It's about time something actually worked today, right? I have been enjoying using the stove top, as it's the first time I've ever lived in a place with a gas range and I really appreciate the amount of control I have over the heat. It's kept my optimism about our kitchen situation up, to be sure. I wait for a couple of minutes, then put half a pizza in the oven on our Pampered Chef pizza-cooking stone (to be sure, the only thing from a Pampered Chef catalog that's ever been used more than once in a kitchen). Very pleased with myself at this point, I head to the bedroom to change clothes for the zoo trip.
I return to the kitchen 3 or 4 minutes later, wanting to check on the pizza as I'm unsure how long it will take to reheat. What I see is not what I'd expected. I hadn't expected, in any way, the THICK BLACK SMOKE BILLOWING FROM THE FUCKING OVEN. I rush to it and throw open the oven door. A horrible, noxious type of smoke leaps at my face. J, who's standing on the other side of the thing, is the first one to notice the flames.
J: Um...it's on fire.
R: (choking) Huh?
J: It's on FIRE! IT'S ON FIRE!
I open the door again, and sure enough, she's right. Well, golly! Lookee there! There's a full-blown fire in that little oven! Shucky-darn! The flames appear to be coming from underneath the main oven chamber, and the smoke is now filling the kitchen and living room. J thrusts a pint-sized saucepan into my hands and I try and throw some water on it. The flames get higher. The smoke is now thick enough that I am actually having difficulty breathing. I shout at her to get the children the FUCK OUT OF THERE and to call 911. She rounds them up in 10 seconds and heads out the door.
I am alone in an apartment in which I've lived for less than three weeks, and it is on fire.
(All of what follows occurs in under two minutes). I try and throw some more water on the flames, which continue to intensify despite my attempt. I retreat to the bedrooms, and it occurs to me that I need to begin thinking about what to take. Seriously. I realize that I'm only a couple of seconds away from having to abandon everything I own—every photo, every memory—and flee downstairs while the building (and probably the rest of the block, to be fair, due to the attached housing) goes up in flames. For all of my flippant remarks in this blog, this carries no sarcasm or embellishment whatsoever. I'm about to lose it all.
Of the millions of thoughts simultaneously rushing through my head, the only one sticks is that I'm just a couple of seconds away from disaster. Which somehow manages to turn around in my head—instead of being a couple of seconds away, I realize that this means I have a couple of seconds to DO something. There's no time for reconsideration here. I have to save the place.
I rush back into the kitchen, saucepan in hand, and refill it in the sink. The smoke is in my eyes now, and it's very hard to see or breathe at all. No matter, I need to find the source of the flames and try and put this fire out. My fear is that we have a gas leak, in which case the entire building will explode any moment...but again, I have no time to dwell on this. I'm not just going to run screaming from the building while my family's life—and other families' lives—are taken from them. FUCK NO. I will stay, and I will fight.
I remember that the fire seems to originate from the broiler drawer underneath the main oven chamber, so I open it. This results in the single most horrifying thing I've ever seen—the flames, having gained much more oxygen with the opening of the drawer, explode into a fireball that leaps all the way up the wall, up the cabinets, and to the ceiling. I'm not sure what happens next...I think I just stay there, throwing little saucepans of water into the drawer, until finally...I beat it. The smoke turns mercifully to steam. I can't see. I can't breathe. I'm dizzy. My legs threaten to give out beneath me. But I've managed to extinguish the blaze...somehow.
I head downstairs, finding J and the kids standing on the sidewalk. I am dimly aware of sirens, and realize after a few seconds that the NYFD has already arrived. One firefighter rushes into the house with me as I explain what happened and that I think I've gotten the fire out. Four more guys join him, and they assess the situation. The scene is fairly grim. As I stand in Molly's room and give them space to work, I see five backlit firefighters standing in black-grey haze in my kitchen. It's surreal. It's from a movie. It has to be.
Or not. It's my life, or what my life has become. I explain to the lead firefighter that some idiot—probably me—appears to have left a cake pan with a plastic lid in the broiler drawer and it caught fire. The guy looks at me like I'm the world's biggest moron, which I deserve. (The truth is that I wasn't the one who put the cake pan in there, but I feel responsible anyway for not having checked. In any case, it hardly matters now, does it?) They check for gas leaks, and, satisfied that there aren't any, pack up and take their three trucks and an ambulance back to the station. It should be noted here that they arrived about 120 seconds after J called. This is astounding, and a testament to their readiness. I'm not one to throw the word “hero” around. These guys are heroes.
Dave from upstairs appears in front of the building. He, Jennifer, and Kyle were just returning from the grocery store when they noticed the commotion as they pulled onto 5th Street. J will later have the following conversation with him:
J: So...you turned the corner...
D: Yeah. And we saw the fire trucks, and we were like “Whoa! On our block!”
J: And as you got closer...
D: We were like, “Whoa! In our building!”
J: And you have to admit...
D: Admit what?
J: That you thought to yourself, “What did those Coloradans do NOW?”
D: Well...
J: ...yeah...
D: I actually said that exact thing to Jennifer.
Of COURSE he did. Ugh. We are demoralized, disspirited. But...BUT...we are safe. We have lost NOTHING in the fire. We are tremendously lucky, and tremendously grateful. We go upstairs and open up all the windows. We open the brownstone's front door and the door to the roof to air the place out. We share hugs and shrugs. And you know what?
We get in the car and we go to the zoo. And that, pardners, is another story altogether.
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