Fire!

So, for the most part, I love our neighborhood. It is quiet, it is cheap, it is pleasant. Random men do sometimes make comments, but friendly ones like “Have a good night, young lady!” or “Good morning, Ruby Red!” The apartment itself is wonderful, despite the lack of direct sunlight. Even our super, Luis, is friendly. Nothing out of the ordinary or weird or disquieting has occurred…

Until now. One recent Saturday afternoon I walked out of the apartment to a sea of fire trucks, crowds of people, and police tape marking off the entrance. I was hungover at the time and couldn’t comprehend what was going on. As I stepped over the police tape, people watched me at me but didn’t say a word. I went up to a girl sitting on her front steps a few houses down. She thought some type of smoke bomb had gone off, making people sick, and that they’d evacuated the building.

Had I been forgotten? I went back to where my super Luis was standing with a group of people. Luis and I have some communication issues, since he doesn’t really speak English and my Spanish is relegated to the few phrases I learned in high school Spanish class, but I spoke with another woman, who had wild red curly hair. Apparently someone had gotten in and thrown a roach bomb on the second floor. Why on earth would someone do that? They didn’t know, but they also didn’t seem too surprised.

Nothing quite so dramatic has happened since, and they’ve begun locking the heavy outer doors at 6 pm at night. But I still haven’t quite shaken off the memory of groggily walking outside and getting tangled in police tape.