| Luke! Luke! The Barn! The Barn! |
[Jun. 29th, 2009|11:43 am] |
We are – temporarily – homeless. We had a house fire last night.
We were sitting at the kitchen table about 10:30, reading, when someone began to pound on the door. I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter, but then they began to shout that there was a fire. We threw some necessities into our bags – insulin and meds and the books we'd been reading – and hurried outside. I took a moment to throw my photo albums into the trunk of the car first; I could just begin to smell burning insulation.
One of the sons of the landlord told me it was an electrical fire above the ceiling of the built-out attic of the nineteenth century two-family. They had smelt it, traced it, sensibly decided it was already beyond them, called 911 and warned us.
There are advantages to urban density. The fire department arrived, in force, about two minutes later. Guys ran a hose in, and a ladder deposited two guys on the roof. They were impressively calm and businesslike and competent. A friend from down the street arrived to be supportive, and everyone else on the block turned out to spectate.
It's surprising upsetting to smell that burning house smell from your own house. It was also surreal, as our lights were still on, and I could see into our perfectly normal looking apartment. I was hopeful, though, as the men were opening windows from the top and the skylights, rather than breaking them out, and the two men with the Come To Jesus saw on the roof didn't fire it up to cut ventilation holes.
One of the guys, who saw me peering into the living room, told me that they were trying to use a minimum of water, which was also reassuring. The whole thing was pretty much over in less than an hour. A fireman walked us into the apartment so we could secure it and grab our toothbrushes. Water was dripping out of the ceiling near the outside of the dining room – which is unfortunately where the computer and its peripherals live – but the friend and I cleared the stuff under the drip and put plastic bags on the equipment. (The power had been shut off, and we were working by flashlight.)
The friend offered a mattress on her floor, but I demurred, and we went to a motel down on Morrissey Boulevard. It was generous of her, but I wanted our privacy to freak out in, and get up without worrying about seeing someone in their underwear.
A Mrs. Professor story. She'd already written the July rent check and had it in an envelope for delivery on the first. As we were all standing outside, she gave it to the landlord, saying "You may well need this right now". Instead of being angry at him, or discussing recompense, or threatening lawsuits, she did what she could to help. She just blinked when I pointed this out this morning – of course she'd been nice, and helpful. Mrs. Professor is, you will have twigged by now, a lovely person.
We slept fitfully. In the morning we at least had showers with plenty of water pressure and hot water, ate a perfectly nice breakfast at the free buffet, and went past the house to check on progress.
Our landlord, the poor man, was on the porch, waiting, I think, for his insurance guy. (His English is weak and my Spanish is nonexistent, and he stammers.) He apologized several times, I sympathized several times, and we took a look at my apartment. For a house that's had a fire, we got off very lightly. The hung ceiling in the dining room is toast – soggy toast – and I suspect whatever's left of the plaster above it is dead as well. Perhaps the insurance will cover repairing it, at long last. I'm a bit concerned about mold. The rug is damp, but it's synthetic, and it'll dry. Everything else seemed untouched. I took a towel and wiped off the table that had been dripped on, grabbed a couple of incidentals we'd forgotten in the scramble the previous night, and we came to work.
Well, where the hell else were we going to go?
Tonight, we'll go over and throw out everything in the refrigerator. (There was a puddle in front of it, but I didn't want to bother with it just then.) Unless they have the power up, we'll spend another night in the motel. (We may anyway; we've already incurred another night's charge.) (And the landlord said his insurance ought to cover it. He'd already offered to cover it himself.) By tomorrow, we hope, the landlord will get a licensed electrician and a city inspector to go in and certify the electrical system (and, I would imagine, disconnect the burney part.) Further news as it happens. |
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