Bad Sign

 It wasn't until the morning after that I had this memory: My Volkswagen had expired somewhere west of Tulsa, Oklahoma. I coasted to the shoulder, pulled on the emergency brake and got out. Right behind me were my two college buddies with whom I was making a pilgrimage to a Muskogee high school football game. Ever hopeful that it would be something simple like a loose wire or a big "reset" button, I opened up the back lid to inspect the engine. It was my friend, the Okie from Muskogee who summed it up, "Hmm. Flames. That's not a good sign." Before I considered all the potential harm I might be doing us all, I blew out the fire not unlike a birthday candle. 

We did not make it to the football game. 

The reason for me to have this memory jogged was the moment my wife said, "There's a car on fire next door." This was a lot of information to take in at one thirty on a Saturday morning. I got the "on fire" part. That was enough to get my body up off the bed and lurching into something approximating verticality. Now I just had to take in the rest. Car? Not ours. Our car was not next door. Which next door? We are sandwiched between two apartment buildings? My freshly opened eyes began to take in what my wife had seen. Not outside our bedroom window. Outside our living room window. 

Meanwhile, my very clear-headed wife had already called 911 and was grabbing the fire extinguisher from beside our refrigerator. I was stumbling toward the front door to get a look at just how big a car and how big a fire we were talking about. 

The front end of our neighbor's SUV was fully engulfed. The flames had begun to melt the plastic on the cars next to it. I stepped back inside to put on a jacket, as I was standing on our front porch in my pajama pants. This is when my wife passed me the fire extinguisher. It might as well have been a giant zucchini or a coffee grinder. My brain was not grasping the full scope of what was going on in front of me. 

"You just pull the pin," she told me as she retreated back into the house, "I'm going to put some pants on." 

Down the front steps I went, fumbling with the device that was designed for putting out grease fires in the kitchen, not for a fully engaged car fire. That's when the first tire blew. Then the fire truck pulled up. I stood there in my driveway watching professionals do the job for which they were trained. When the second tire exploded, the fireman closest to it didn't even flinch. I felt pretty silly standing there with my little extinguisher. 

And just like that, the fire was out. The smell of burned plastic mingled with that of the charred fence. Most of the residents of the apartment building were now assembled loosely in the parking lot. Grateful that no one had been hurt. Relieved that the relative calm was returning. 

I knew our neighbor was going to have a rough week ahead, dealing with reports to insurance and fire and police and back to insurance again. I'm guessing she won't be going on any road trips to Oklahoma any time soon.