The House Fire

(Messed-Up but Managing #20)

A few mornings ago, I was having breakfast and catching up with an old friend. At one point, he made the same remark my barber often says, “Man, you’ve got stories!” He’s not wrong. I’m inclined to think everyone else has as many stories but maybe not. I don’t know. Maybe I just pay attention to things a little more? (I literally have an app on my phone where I write joke and story ideas.) Anyway, when I left breakfast, a past story came to mind: the house fire.

That’s right, a couple years ago, the house two doors up from us caught on fire. And it wasn’t a something-smells-like-it’s-burning kinda fire. It was a fire fire. The kind where people start running barefoot into the street. The grandson had been cooking in the kitchen. It was Sunday lunch, after church, and grandma and grandpa were napping. I can’t remember what he was cooking but it was something with grease. And, as we all know, grease is basically Satan’s cologne. And I think the kid who used to play center for our high school basketball team often borrowed it from him.

Anyway, it went from the frying pan to the kitchen wall to the roof all in less than a couple of minutes. Flames were shooting out the windows, smoke was billowing, and the grandma and grandson were out on the sidewalk, screaming. She was frantic. He was bawling. I ran over and she yelled, “My husband is still inside!”

I don’t know what comes over a man in moments like that, but something primal kicked in. I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. I became the Hulk. Michael Hulkomb. I ran straight to the back door and it was locked. So I did what any normal guy with zero training and weak arms does. I kicked it open. Now, I’m sure on tape, that scene would have all the trappings of a low-budget action movie. I don’t care. I did it.

I’ve never had that kind of strength in my life. My foot made contact and the door flew open like it was scared of me, like it knew I meant business. I rushed inside. Smoke was thick at the top of the ceiling. It felt like what I imagine it would be like to run through Snoop Dogg’s house. The roof, the roof, the roof was literally on fire. In retrospect, it was stupid of me to run in there but it was brave. I ran to the back room where he was supposed to be and… nothing. Awesome. No grandpa in sight. Just my luck.

The only thing in that part of the house? Two dogs in a janky octagon playpen. One was looking at me like, “Bruh, it took you long enough!” The other was pumped and decided it’d be a good time to play hard to get. Eventually, I scooped them up, one under each arm, and ran back outside like a bad***. I handed them over to grandma, then ran to the back of the house. There he was: grandpa. Just standing calmly behind the house.

What the heck?! What was grandpa doing? Nothing. Just watching. He was silent. He was focused. He looked like a zen master watching the slow destruction of everything he owns. I said, “Sir! You’re alive!” He nodded at me. That’s all. And I realized: this man has seen things. Turns out, irony of all ironies, that he had been a firefighter his whole life. So while I was kicking in his doors like Rambo, he probably saw me.

Was he just watching the flames? Tracking wind direction? Calculating the burn rate? What was going on with him? To this day, I still don’t know. I have no idea why he didn’t go back in for his dogs or why he wasn’t standing with his wife and grandson. I’ll never know. I can just assume he was paying attention to things I didn’t even know to look at. Maybe he was just in shock.

Meanwhile, my other neighbor was not calm. He was blasting the side of the man’s burning house with his garden hose, you know the kind my wife uses to water her half-dying tomatoes. Just kidding… they’re totally dead tomatoes. But it really didn’t matter. Everyone in the vicinity was all in fighting the fire with whatever we had at our disposal. People were spraying, running, yelling, and praying. We were trying our absolute best to keep the fire at bay long enough for the fire department to arrive. And, with the odds stacked against us, we did.

After the flames were out, the family used our house as home base. Our tiny living room was filled with smoke-drenched clothes and intense emotions. Grandpa was silent. Grandma was consoling. The grandson was still stunned and sobbing and feeling immense regret. The dogs were pacing like little PTSD-scented sausages. In a crazy turn of events, one of the dogs fell off our couch and lost a tooth. She looked at me like, “This is exactly why I didn’t want you to pick me up before!”

While the family was hunkering down at our place, I ran and got them Taco Bell. After all, the grandson burnt his lunch. But that’s also what you do when someone loses their home. You buy them things that taste good now, even if it means more regret in 45 minutes. We got malasadas too, because you can’t really go wrong in Hawai’i with fried dough. It was a moment of chaos but it was sacred.

And that moment stretched out. After several days, the cleanup started. The house was gutted and, as of a couple months ago, it finally seems rebuilt. But a few months after the fire, when it was finally safe again, they threw a luau in the garage. Not a beachside luau that looks like an Instagram dream, just a bunch of us in lawn chairs or sitting on buckets in a garage, under spotlights, eating kalua pig on paper plates with music blasting from a Bluetooth speaker. It was perfect.

And friends, when your neighbor’s house catches on fire, you don’t ask what denomination they are. You don’t check political affiliation. You don’t compare yard sizes or whose kid got into what school. You run in. You kick the door. You grab the dogs. You buy the tacos. You hold space. You help. Because one day, it might be your house up in flames. And you’ll need someone to show up stupid and strong and well-meaning and completely out of their depth, too. And hopefully, you’ll be alright and one day at a garage luau or breakfast with a friend, you’ll be able to tell your story.