on the scene with the Fist fighting Firefighters

* make us famous

Last week a car crashed into the building next door to our house. Someone slammed into the neighbor’s car, shoving it into the building, and the street was shut down. And my girlfriend left me. But this is a new week!

I’m talking shit with my housemate Doc when FWOP-KOOOOOOSHHHHH. We run to the door and look outside. The gas station is on fire. No- a gas truck is on fire and lying on its side at the gas station. Some chick was going the wrong way over the Claiborne overpass. He should’ve knocked that bitch right off the bridge into the trees, but instead HE swerves- right into the gas station. Nobody sees him exit the vehicle.

The Quicky’s giant neon sign has fallen across Franklin Street and everything is on fire. At first it’s small and controllable, but the fire department doesn’t show up for a long time. By the time they do arrive, it’s a fucking inferno- a plume of fire towers above the treetops, the sign across the street has melted off its frame, other things are starting to ignite. They realize way after I do: YOU DON’T GOT THIS UNDER CONTROL GUYS.  They are yelling at each other, their words punctuated by explosions:

“Well then, fucking put it out like it’s YOUR JOB!”


The fire chief punches the fireman.  As we get in Doc’s van I see them taking swings at each other- just like you do in an emergency. Frustrated and consumed by the energy of a fire where even the professionals are scared shitless, the first responders are fistfighting in the street in front of a hundred-foot fireball. Fantastic.  

The whole place is hot, about to explode; everybody is told to evacuate. Down the street at Flora’s, out of blast range, we spend hours watching the fire go on and on, much like an elderly New Orleanian talking your ear off to pass the time: fascinating, annoying, but you are committed now- not much else to do but wonder where this is going. They couldn’t put out the fire for hours. The whole time Doc and I discuss our plans on being homeless, on how this might be a sign to get the fuck out of NOLA- maybe she’s trying to say something?

So my girlfriend left, my block exploded, and I have to be at work in the morning.  God dammit, this is a bad time for a toothache to kick in . . . and hard. I need to get it ripped out.  Easier than my heart, I suppose.  

At least I’m not the driver- they only recovered his feet.