Winter, 2001

05 Feb 2018

Early 2001 was a rare time in my life where I liberally used the snooze button, and on the morning of March 9th, I reached out from my bed and tapped it a couple of times. It wouldn’t turn off. This is when I looked closer at the time and saw it was too early. I was hearing the fire alarm.

I got up to see why it was going off, and when I opened the door to the 2nd floor apartment, I saw gray smoke drifting up the stairway from Al’s apartment. I put on my otherwise unused bathrobe and my roommate Willie and I walked down to the first floor. The door to Al’s apartment was ajar, and Willie pushed it open further and questioned out his name. There was a rush of choking smoke, and we backed away and went outside. At this point, I was on the sidewalk wearing my bathrobe, a t-shirt and boxers, and my sneakers. Soon the flames began twitching out of the front door. I was now wishing I’d done more, but I had gone straight to the emergency action plan, and walked outside like a good fellow. Now I was staring at a fire that was making me technically homeless because a man had fallen asleep with a cigarette.

I am not from the Boston area. My parents are from Pennsylvania and, via schooling and the army, my family landed in West Texas where I was born. My grade school was a mile from the border, and at several different points, my family was the only white one. I was sworn at, laughed at, spit at, pantsed, had rocks thrown at me, summarily picked last for any activity, and otherwise alienated or taunted by schoolmates and even complete strangers passing by during recess. My only defense was to pretend it didn’t bother me.

When I moved to Boston, I was not welcome here, either. At least, that’s how it felt until the apartment fire. If I was in the wrong part of town I was called scum by strangers, and I found unbreakable circles of friendship all around me. My build was strange to my work colleagues, constantly pointing out how skinny I was, and when they got an idea of my political leanings, a superior started calling me professor in an uncomplimentary way. It was hard, but I did manage to find some friends who were likewise from out of state. The feeling of being an outsider however, seemed unpenetrable.

I did not have a cellphone in March 2001, and our next door neighbors let us into their house as we watched the firemen arrive and push their way into the entrance with a blowing hose. I used the neighbors’ phone to call work, where I left a message explaining that I wouldn’t get into the office because the house where I lived was on fire. I saw the paramedics pull out Al on a stretcher, somehow performing CPR while the cot was in motion. Later that night I would access the voicemail we had associated with our landline, and I would hear the guys from my office laughing, chanting “the roof is on fire,” and asking me to produce the body to prove my excuse.

After the amublance left, we went back outside, still in our robes. Cars slowed down to stare, and a newscaster came up to me and pointed out the man Al had died, and did I know him.

Soon after, still standing outside in my sockless sneakers while a light snow began to fall, a woman in her forties walked up to me, unwound her scarf and gave it to me, saying I needed it more than she did. I never saw her again. We headed over to the Rosebud nearby, laughing-crying over our newfound lot. We had no wallets or credit cards, and the diner gave us the meal for free, turning off the local news on our behalf. Later, we would get a pair of sweats from the Red Cross, along with food vouchers that were only valid at the local grocery store chains. My friend Michael put me up at his apartment, where I slept on his floor for several weeks until I could find more permanent housing.

We gained entrance back into the building after the fire inspector had done his work. Everything was wet and blackened. A painting I had bought on a solo trip to a beach in Maine was still on the wall, but only the frame remained. My work badge was on the table face down, melted. My room had not been on fire, but most of my belongings were ruined by smoke damage. We stood inside the charred apartment with three other people: an insurance adjuster for our landlord, someone that wanted to represent us in court, and a man who specialized in cleaning damaged clothing. This man offered to save what he could for free, and we were able to produce two bags of clothing that had a chance. Two weeks later, there was only one thing left from my childhood: a blanket from Mexico. My roommate and I insisted on paying something, and the man told us “just get me some nice Scotch.”

I returned to work a couple of days after the fire, wearing borrowed clothes from my friend, and I shared the melted badge. After leaving the voicemail message, they had seen the news, and realized that my call had been serious. They were sober and thoughtful, and the following Friday my immediate supervisor produced an envelope flush with cash and personal checks. I could see that many of them were significant dents into personal budgets, including from people I barely knew and even their parents. I did not have insurance simply because I had never heard of tenant’s insurance, and it was this bundle that allowed me to get some clothes along with a dresser and mattress for the floor. The fire erased much of my past, but I discovered that mythic New English resilience and the kindness that’s tucked inside scarves and winter hats.

I was born outside of New England entirely, raised outside of the state, and I did not know how to get to Hough’s Neck or even Malden without buying a thick road atlas of all the state towns. Being “from New England” is a very high standard, one that perhaps my children will meet. After the fire however, I stopped feeling unwelcome; I even felt accepted. Maybe that’s too simple a statement, but it’s something that many folks take for granted. I do not.