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Published
Tuesday July 29, 2008
Literature
BY
Gary Beck
©
Gary Beck
2008
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Tuesday 29-Jul-2008 17:06
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RETORT
MAGAZINE ISSN 1445-7164 |
Landlord Attack
Jaime
Perez crept up the fire escape as quietly as he could and
stopped at the third floor. He leaned over the guard rail
to the kitchen window that he had been told didn't have
a gate. He waited patiently to be sure that no one on the
street had noticed him, while vapor from the cold steamed
out of his mouth. He pressed his short, skinny, drug ravaged
body against the wall until he felt ready, then he took
a metal tool from his pocket and stealthily pried the window
open. He couldn't hear any sounds from the dark apartment,
so he carefully slipped over the rail and climbed inside.
The landlord had assured him that they didn't own a dog,
so although still alert, he began to relax. The landlord
had also carefully instructed him how to place paper next
to the pilot light of the stove, run a paper strip to the
nearest inflammable material and ignite it so it would appear
to be an accident. There was a cardboard cake box on a table
next to the stove and he ran the strip of paper to the box.
He paused and listened intently, his body a menacing hulk
in the darkness, then greedily opened the box. It was some
kind of pound cake, not his favorite, like chocolate or
pineapple, but better than nothing. He broke off a chunk
with a gloved hand and stuffed it in his mouth, crumbs dribbling
on the floor.
The landlord
had insisted that he not take anything, but a piece of cake
didn't count. Besides, the greedy pig would never know.
Jaime needed a hit on the crack pipe and the sugar from
the cake would settle his jangling nerves. He silently cursed
the landlord for a moment. He knew why the landlord wanted
this family out. Then he could renovate the apartment cheaply
and triple the rent. When the tenants rejected what must
have been a low offer and other pressures failed, the landlord
sent for him. Jaime was known as 'the torch' to a few pitiless
landlords on the lower east side, whose lust for profit
at the expense of decency was aroused by gentrification.
He could smell the paper by the pilot light smoldering,
so he lit a match, put it to the middle of the paper strip
and made sure it was burning both ways. Then he slid out
the window to the fire escape and closed it behind him.
As he hastily went down the metal steps, he thought: 'To
hell with those gringos. Let them burn. They forced my people
out of the neighborhood. Now they'll get theirs.'
Some kind
of noise brought Peter to the surface from a deep sleep.
He groggily stretched, not sure what happened, then suddenly
smelled smoke. He leaped up and dashed to the kitchen and
saw the fire. The flames were high enough to keep him from
reaching the sink with its flexible water hose, so he tore
off his T-shirt and tried to smother the flames, but this
only fanned them higher. He rushed back to the bedroom,
pulled the covers off his wife and shook her arm. "What's
wrong?" Beth sleepily asked. "It's a fire,"
he yelled. "We've got to get the kids out." She
instantly snapped awake and took charge: "I'll take
Jen and you take Andy." They hurried to the children's
bedroom, where Jennifer and Andrew were sound asleep. As
the children gradually awakened, they wrapped them in their
blankets and carried them out of the bedroom.
The smoke was rapidly spreading through the apartment. "Should
I try to grab my wallet?" Peter asked. Beth looked
around and quickly decided: "Let's get the kids into
the hall, then you can see if it's safe to go back inside."
Flames were pouring out of the kitchen and the acrid smoke
was blurring their vision. The children were wide awake
now, frightened and crying. They made their way through
the living room into the hallway that led to the front door.
The room was rapidly filling with smoke and when Peter opened
the door, smoke billowed into the hall. They paused at the
head of the stairs and Peter looked back, considering if
he should risk returning for his wallet and other valuables.
Beth realized what he was thinking and said firmly: "No
way you're going in there." He protested: "All
our money and credit cards are in there, and our coats.
It's freezing outside." She shook her head. "At
least we're not hurt. We'll manage the rest."
Officer Herminio Corrado was just carrying a container of
coffee to his partner in the patrol car, when he saw the
flames burst out of the window from a house down the block.
He knocked on the hood to get his partner's attention, pointed,
then set off at a run. He moved faster than the usual officer's
cautious approach to danger, since fire couldn't attack
him from a distance and rapid response was essential. But
he was already trembling and his insides were churning,
because he was terrified of fire. He leaped up the steps
of the building and knocked loudly on each door as he passed,
shouting: "Police. Fire." When he got to the third
floor, he found a family of four at the landing and yelled:
"Get those kids out now." The man started mumbling
something about losing all their possessions, but there
was no time for that nonsense. "Get going. You can
worry about your things later." He gave the man a shove
and watched him start downstairs, as the woman tugged him
along.
The flames
were shooting out of the apartment door and smoke was filling
the hallway. He hesitated, afraid of being trapped by the
fire, then started upstairs to warn the other tenants. He
was halfway up the flight of stairs, when someone grabbed
him from behind and he almost jumped out of his skin. He
turned around and saw that it was a fireman in full protective
gear, looking like a giant insect, ready to dip its proboscis.
The fireman pulled up his mask and said: "I'll take
it from here." Relief zoomed through his body. "Thanks,
buddy." He watched the alien figure hurry upstairs
and thought: 'Thank you, thank you. I don't know how you
do it, but better you than me.' He quickly went downstairs
and out of the building. His partner was waiting and congratulated
him for his fast reaction. "You did good, Coro."
He nodded thanks, then confided; "I could never be
a fireman. It scares the shit out of me. I'd rather face
a gunman any day." His partner grunted agreement. "Me
too."
Firefighter
Eugene Jones was dozing in his seat, heading back to the
firehouse after shopping for dinner at an expensive grocery.
When the call came in they were only a few blocks from the
scene, so it only took a minute or two to get there. He
put on his gear as they went, holding on to the safety bar
with one hand as they tore around the corner. They were
the first truck on the scene and he adjusted his mask and
rushed into the building, followed by the rest of the crew.
Tenants were streaming out and he carefully forced his way
upstairs through the panicky flow. He saw the cop ordering
some tenants out, caught up to him on the stairs and told
him that he'd take over. As the cop started downstairs,
he thought: 'I could never be a cop. I'd be terrified if
someone was shooting at me.' He shook his head at the distraction,
then went and knocked on each door on the fourth floor.
By this time, the commotion, sirens and smoke had awakened
everybody and he calmly urged them to leave the building.
One of his
partners had evacuated the fifth floor and came down and
beckoned him to help check the apartment directly over the
fire. The door was ajar and they entered warily, concerned
with a sudden blaze through the floor. They knelt and felt
the kitchen floor which was hot, but not incendiary. They
carefully checked the walls, then the rest of the apartment
and followed the same procedure in the hall. They didn't
find any indicators that the fire had spread upstairs. The
smoke was already dissipating, so they went downstairs to
the apartment where the fire started to help the rest of
the crew. By the time they got there, the fire had been
extinguished and they joined the search for any further
hot spots. The kitchen and part of the main bedroom were
thoroughly burned, but the destruction to the rest of the
apartment was moderate. Gene studied the scene and thought
the damage looked peculiar, but left it for the fire marshal
to examine. He saw that he wasn't needed, so he began to
lug fire hose downstairs.
Peter was
freezing in his pajamas and Beth wasn't much warmer in the
bathrobe she had managed to put on before their rapid escape.
They had been able to snatch down coats for the children,
so at least they were warm, but they were still traumatized
by the sudden evacuation. The organized chaos that had followed
the fire had shattered the once calm night for them. Neighbors
had poured out of their houses, eager for the spectacle
of disaster. Although disappointed that no one had jumped,
a fiery meteor plunging to earth, or had been carried out
blackened and smoldering, the crowd avidly gaped at the
building, faces tense with expectation, still hoping for
something titillating. The flashing red lights on the fire
trucks and police cars cast incandescent glows on the savage
spectators, who didn't seem overly evolved from their ancient
ancestors. Peter watched in utter bewilderment, unsure of
what to do next. Beth sensed his confusion: "Ask someone
if we can go back to our apartment, now that the fire is
out."
Peter looked around and saw a fireman coiling hose nearby
and called to him: "Excuse me. Can we go back to our
apartment now?" The fireman turned his head and looked
at him tiredly. "Sorry, sir. The fire marshal has to
inspect the premises to determine the cause of the fire.
Then they have to check the building for safety and stability."
Peter's voice was getting shrill. "When do you think
we can get in there?" "Maybe tomorrow afternoon,
depending on the damage." "Can't we just get some
clothes? We're freezing our butts off." "That's
just not possible," the fireman said. "But I can
give you some blankets that'll at least keep you warm."
The fireman walked to the truck and pulled out some gray,
heavy wool blankets and handed them to Peter, who just stood
there and asked dumbly: "What do we do now?" "Do
you have somewhere to go for the rest of the night?"
"No." "Friends? Family?" "No."
"Why don't you bring these blankets to your family,"
the fireman said. "I'll see if I can get someone to
help you." Peter shuffled back to Beth, lugging the
blankets, dazed by the distressing events.
Gene saw
the cop from the stairs leaning on his patrol car and walked
over to him. "Hey, pal, how're ya doin?" The cop's
face was streaked with soot, but he looked cheerful. "O.K.
What about you?" "Good. We didn't lose anybody."
They grinned at each other in the instant camaraderie that
shared danger brings, especially to the uniformed services.
The cop extended his hand. "I'm Coro." Gene took
his hand. "I'm Gene." They stood there for a moment,
reassured by the bond that helped them protect civilians.
Coro said confidingly: "I almost pissed my pants."
Gene whispered: "When you're a firefighter, they spray
so much water on you that no one notices." They laughed
comfortably together. "Thanks, buddy," Coro said.
Gene smiled. "That's O.K. Listen, there's a family
that doesn't have anyplace to go." "Where?"
Gene pointed. "There." Coro recognized them from
the stairs. "I'll see what I can do. Take care, buddy."
"You, too." Gene waved cheerfully, then went back
to coiling hose.
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Tuesday 29-Jul-2008 17:06
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RETORT
MAGAZINE ISSN 1445-7164 |
Gary
Beck
©
Gary Beck
2008
Gary
Beck's recent fiction has appeared in 3AM Magazine, EWG
Presents, Nuvein Magazine, Vincent Brothers Review, The
Journal, Short Stories Bimonthly, Bibliophilos and the
Dogwood Journal. Excerpts from his recent novel of the
'60's, 'Dark Strains,' appeared in Nuvein Magazine, Fullosia
Press, L'Intrigue Magazine, and Babel Magazine. His poetry
has appeared in dozens of literary magazines. His chapbook
'Remembrance' has just been published by Origami Press
and another chapbook 'The Conquest of Somalia' will be
published by Cervena Barva Press. His plays and translations
of Moliere, Aristophanes, and Sophocles have been produced
Off-Broadway. He is a writer/director of award-winning
social issue video documentaries.
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