The Fire

One night during the winter of 2008 I had the apartment all to myself and was exercising my liver with some whiskey. Of course I purchased it from the liquor store on lex between 122 and 123--the owner loved me as I was a regular and was one of the only customers he allowed to use a credit card. Even in sobriety, I still miss that liquor store; I was never embarassed to be buying liquor in a neighborhood so rife with problems of greater magnitude.

Anyways, I was on the couch in the living room, the Queens skyline to my left, Lexington ave 350 feet beneath my terrace and a Pacino flic on my TV, when I realized I smelled smoke. When I drink, my sense of smell dulls almost immediately after the first shot. I was about eight or ten shots deep, so my smelling anything indicated it was potent. I opened the door to see if the hallway was on fire.

In 1990, a garbage fire was not unheard of. I'll never forget, one night I'm packed in the elevator after a hard day's work, the doors open at 10 and putrid, acrid smoke comes rushing into the elevator. Apparently some of the building's young thugs decided to light the recylcing/garbage on fire in the compactor room. An older lady in the elevator said something to the effect of "that's the kids doin that." I got to 33 and called 911.

No fire in the hallway. In fact no one was in the hallway. 33 was always a quiet floor. 4 or 5 of the 12 apartments up there were "new market rate apartments." I know this from being friends with my neighbors and also from spying the work order sheet from Riley, or Al. The sheet broke down whether an apartment was a regular tenant or a "new market rate apartment." I wondered who got the better services...

As I returned to my apartment I looked through the doorway (I left the door wide open, because whiskey makes me invincible) to see smoke billowing past my terrace, and clearing the roof, into the Manhattan sky. This was a new one. I bounded straight through the doorway, across the living room toward the view of Laguardia Airort and opened the sliding glass door onto the terrace. The smoke smell was strong, but it was moving rapidly past my terrace and didn't overwhelm me. I fumbled with my key to open the iron gate...I kept it locked at all times because, you know, security is a concern. I found myself hanging my head over the guard railing of the terrace looking down at flames and embers from about 150 feet below.

It is a unique experience to live in a high-rise apartment and witness a fire blazing beneath your feet. The NYFD responded promptly and knocked the fire out with one line of highly pressurized water.

My problem now was that Wing Wah chinese, over on first avenue was going to be closing soon and I needed my anti-hangover Chinese food delivered to my gentripad. I returned to the hallway to find the elevators completely shut down. 10 minutes to go before the Chinese food call would prove futile, I decided to order and have faith in the infrastructure of 1990 Lexington. Returning from the elevators, I ran into a fireman who must have been a descendant of Paul Bunyon. Other than my roommate, this was the first white male I had seen on the 33rd floor. All my white neighbors were female. Bunyon Jr. advised that the elevators would be working shortly. After a few more shots, my phone rang and identified the call as "Wing Wah Dlvry Man." He had his own number in my phone because this guy was a trooper. He'd bike Chinese all over the streets of East Harlem, sometimes carrying upwards of $100 in his pocket. One time I saw a guy in the lobby shaking his head as the deliveryman was sifting thorugh a pile of 10s and 20s. It's a statement when a tenant from 1990 is looking at you thinking, you're nuts for rolling around town on your Chinese Food bike with that kinda cash. Hey, ya gotta make a buck and I always tipped him well. I threw him an extra dollar because the booze was treating me well and why not, if this story went another way my money might have been burned to ash that night and I wouldn't be here writing to you.