My Dog Ate My Homework
There is a spot -- where my desk used to be -- where glass actually pierced the wood in the floor when it was hammered in by the toppled radiator. You would never mistake my desk as something a craftsman would build but it looked a whole lot better than the fragments of cardboard and plywood that are now scattered around the floor. My mattress and box springs were thrown out of the way after, as far as I can tell, they dropped the computer.
I heard about the fire from my roommate, Jihad, who left a message on my phone explaining that there was smoke coming from the building next door. The first sign I picked up that something had really gone awry was around 11:00pm when I came out from the subway and my block was surrounded by fire trucks and flashing lights. I was walking back with my girlfriend of three weeks, Eveline.
No one tried to stop us from entering the building, so we ignored the passing firemen as we sauntered up the stairs with the two slices of pizza we bought down the street. On the third floor the superintendent, Rafael, gave us a worried nod as we went by.
The ax holes in our door were an early sign that not all was well. They were also, perhaps, a sign of overzealousness on the part of the department. Jihad was, after all, at home when they arrived. A loud knock would have served to open the front door.
It makes complete sense that a fire truck doesn't come equipped with its own PR representative, so I shouldn't be surprised that we were completely ignored by the various large firemen as they went about their business of actually extinguishing the fire, but it was still a touch surreal. A low fog hung over the whole apartment and latex-clad men with axes hurried past us as we casually surveyed the damage. The windows were an early casualty and a few of the walls. I don't know why they broke all the windows, but I assume there is some important reason. The fire started with a faulty electrical connection in the wall of the building next door, so it only stands to reason that they would bash in the drywall. I imagine knocking in the ceiling is a logical corollary. Knocking over my radiator was a curious move. So was overturning a wingback chair and knocking books from the shelves. When we opened the door to my room and found it doused in steam I asked one of the firefighters if something was on fire. "No. A steam pipe burst," he explained. In this case the active voice might have been more appropriate. It was kind of like saying "the front door was axed," or "the windows broke."
To be fair, I am no more equipped for fighting fires than for the traditional male tasks of carpentry or plumbing. When it comes to doing useful things with my hands, I should pretty much draw the line at typing. That doesn't mean that I do. I am as willing as the next guy to bungle into building shelves or redoing a bathroom. Point me towards a circular saw, a fire extinguisher, or a pipe wrench and I will charge in full-hearted and return with a missing finger, third-degree burns, or water in my lungs.
My point is, I don't judge the fire department. I am certain they did what needed to be done. But watching the FDNY must be what it was like to watch a team of well-trained Vikings ransack a village.
It's hard to say that something being not as bad as it could have been is serendipitous. Serendipity, after all, implies that something good actually happened. That was not the case here. Still, as fires go, this one could have been a whole lot worse. The day after the fire, I officially bought an income restricted coop unit across town with the help of a sizeable loan from my parents, so Jihad and I have a place to move. Eveline was happy to put me up for a few weeks and, although all my things smell like a campfire, they weren't really damaged by the fire or the fire department. My computer emerged from the four foot plummet miraculously unharmed, and when the fire department knocked down my shelves, it just saved me from doing it.
There ought to be a word for that combination of terrible luck combined with a whole bunch of mitigating factors. You could use it when your grandmother trips and falls onto a pillow-top mattress or when you drop a priceless vase only to discover it's a fake. Maybe misunfortunate or malfortuitous. I'd love any suggestions below. Whatever that word is, that's what happened to me and that's why I haven't written in a few weeks. You have to admit it's a pretty good excuse.