Fire Arcade

The day I moved to Vancouver a fire broke out on the fifth floor of my ghetto apartment. I was sharing a one bedroom apartment with my high school friend. It was located the seventh floor; the view, our only feature.

My mom moved me over in our beige station wagon that I called the "skin mobile". We fit all of my belongings into the back, including the single mattress that I used as my bed for many years - I refused to buy a futon.

When I was packing up my things I had included a set of shakespeare's plays. They were beautiful books my great aunt had once owned: gold-foil text, chocolate skins mottled with age, smelling sour and inviting. No one in my family ever cracked their spines.

But my mom refused to let me take them.

"What if you have a fire or flood?" she pitched her voice to a whiny falsetto. I winced as I always do when she hits her dog-whistle: "Mom, I'm on the seventh floor; I don't think I have to worry about flooding. And no one reads them... or are they a part of your decorating scheme?" ... of which we had none (to this day, an only-I-am-in-the-know joke is the only strategy for muting the call of the dog-whistle ).

So my mom moved me to Vancouver in a beige station wagon but Shakespeare stayed at home. And we had a fire that night.

Three women just about to go to sleep on 3 single mattresses suddenly smelled something burning. Then the fire alarm went off. I assumed it was a false alarm. Because a fire on the first night in your first apartment is just too novel. My life wasn't a story.

To give myself a reality check, I popped my head out the door to see how the other neighbours were responding. A fat, shirtless man holding a beer can was doing the sam. I asked him if this happens often. He shrugged, slugged the last of his beer, swore, and closed his door.

I did the same... closed the door that is. Mom's not too keen on swearing.

When I turned around, I was facing 2 sets of wide-open eyes. A pause. Then whoop: three nightgowns flew over heads, tits flashed and civilian clothes doned. Down the stairs we went along with half-tied robes, birds in cages, gekkos on shoulders, and six packs of beer.

There was an apartment fire on the fifth floor.
It had started to rain.
A burning couch came flying out the window,
And landed on the new manager's mini van.

My shirtless neighbour snapped a Lucky beer out of its plastic ring and handed it to me. "Showtime," he said.

Fire men streamed in and out of the building.
"Some of them are cute," mom said.
I looked over at her, first shocked and then pleased.
So, she notices these things.
"Fire meat," cackled the cougar holding a bird cage.

"What kind of a portent is this? my first night in my new life," I paused.
I never answered this question; I was suddenly distracted by a rubber-and-suspender-clad fireman.

I think my mom looked over at me and pitched, "See? I knew you shouldn't have brought the books."
But I'm not too sure. The fire muted her.