The Kitchen Fire: a true story
It was 20 years ago...
My girlfriend and I got into married housing on campus by lying to the university (I was, as far as they knew, her sister who had suffered a serious nervous breakdown), and we really loved our little cinderblock apartment - it was cheap, it was bigger than 2 dorm rooms, and we could party all night if we wanted without some RatAss showing up to bang on the door and complain.
Shortly after we moved into the 2nd floor unit, we found that we were getting a new neighbor. Pam Berger (say it fast a couple of times), was a graduate student (Psych Ed, I think); seemed quiet, conservative in her manner, liberal in her politics, a Birkenstock girl with a head full of plans and a stiff upper lip to keep her pointed in the right direction.
It took her a day or so to get her stuff into the apartment and get settled. We had seen her go in and out any number of times, and made it a point to introduce ourselves. It was smiley and smarmy, and over pretty quickly. One of the great benefits we obtained by living in married housing was the ability to share our abode with Niki's 80 pound golden retriever (Sandy.) Pam, our new neighbor, hated the dog on sight.
It was a warm mid-September day and we had our windows open, so it was easy to hear the blood-curdling screams that came from the open windows next door. I ran out the screen door, turned left, and almost collided with Pam who was running out of her identical door; waving her hands, and screaming... except she didn't have any breath left, and had forgotten to inhale and properly execute the shriedk - her short curly brown hair, and almost perfectly round face, combined with her lips simultaneously trying to open as wide as they could and grab any nearby molecules of air - and the aspect of her face defined by the utter lack of color in it made her look like nothing other than a great hairy fish who understands that it is about to die of a heart attack.
I grabbed the railing and avoided the collision - she ran past me, turned around and yelled "My kitchen is on FIRE! Please call 911!" Well, I didn't smell any smoke or see any smoke so I went into her apartment and moved back and a bit the the left to enter her kitchen where...
...I turned off the gas stove, called her into the apartment, explained the aparatus to her, and turned it back on (she jumped and let out a little squeal), and talked to her about natural gas, and pipelines, and meters, etc. She was horrified that gas lines were flowing, connected through the cities, towns, and countryside of our nation. She had never seen a gas stove before - she was 27.
She stayed in that apartment for a week, and then moved out; where, I do not know. I think she couldn't stand the flames.
My girlfriend and I got into married housing on campus by lying to the university (I was, as far as they knew, her sister who had suffered a serious nervous breakdown), and we really loved our little cinderblock apartment - it was cheap, it was bigger than 2 dorm rooms, and we could party all night if we wanted without some RatAss showing up to bang on the door and complain.
Shortly after we moved into the 2nd floor unit, we found that we were getting a new neighbor. Pam Berger (say it fast a couple of times), was a graduate student (Psych Ed, I think); seemed quiet, conservative in her manner, liberal in her politics, a Birkenstock girl with a head full of plans and a stiff upper lip to keep her pointed in the right direction.
It took her a day or so to get her stuff into the apartment and get settled. We had seen her go in and out any number of times, and made it a point to introduce ourselves. It was smiley and smarmy, and over pretty quickly. One of the great benefits we obtained by living in married housing was the ability to share our abode with Niki's 80 pound golden retriever (Sandy.) Pam, our new neighbor, hated the dog on sight.
It was a warm mid-September day and we had our windows open, so it was easy to hear the blood-curdling screams that came from the open windows next door. I ran out the screen door, turned left, and almost collided with Pam who was running out of her identical door; waving her hands, and screaming... except she didn't have any breath left, and had forgotten to inhale and properly execute the shriedk - her short curly brown hair, and almost perfectly round face, combined with her lips simultaneously trying to open as wide as they could and grab any nearby molecules of air - and the aspect of her face defined by the utter lack of color in it made her look like nothing other than a great hairy fish who understands that it is about to die of a heart attack.
I grabbed the railing and avoided the collision - she ran past me, turned around and yelled "My kitchen is on FIRE! Please call 911!" Well, I didn't smell any smoke or see any smoke so I went into her apartment and moved back and a bit the the left to enter her kitchen where...
...I turned off the gas stove, called her into the apartment, explained the aparatus to her, and turned it back on (she jumped and let out a little squeal), and talked to her about natural gas, and pipelines, and meters, etc. She was horrified that gas lines were flowing, connected through the cities, towns, and countryside of our nation. She had never seen a gas stove before - she was 27.
She stayed in that apartment for a week, and then moved out; where, I do not know. I think she couldn't stand the flames.
posted by b at 12:33 PM
5 Comments:
sounds O/C to me!
I want to know if you have visited my blog 500 times??? Fess up! tee, hee....
:)
Holy hell!
I LOVE YOU!
GOBBLE, GOBBLE... ;)
P.S.
Did I ever tell you how much I love it when you call me "Sweety"?
xo
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