More Mike, More Smoke

Mike posted another comment abt the whole fire an' rescue thing:

At 2:49 AM, michael patterson said…

April,

Little sis. Now for more of my story of our excitement for our family after I was interrupted in telling it yesterday.

To recap: It was 2 am. I had just finished my book and I felt like celebrating. Not that I know anything of the physical pain of giving birth, but I was comparing this feat to something equally agonizing - and, now it was done. Yes finishing my book was like having to be in labour for hour after hour until I pushed that baby out of my loins, ripping and tearing the tender flesh of my…I think it was more like passing a kidney stone.

I sauntered down the stairs into the living room and my eyes began to burn. There is nothing like that time of night to make you realize your poor decorating choices. But in addition to my eyes, there was in my nose, the smell of melting plastic and a blue haze of smoke was beginning to curl into the apartment. Except it wasn’t blue of course. It was more like a light grey colour, and it didn’t so much curl as kind of glide through like someone had placed long ribbons across the room. The smoke was very odd. I kept on thinking I could get a pair of scissors and cut through them, but of course that was not truly the case, no matter how many times I tried.

The alarm on the hall ceiling went off, a high-pitched whine that pumped the adrenaline like a syringe. And then of course we also had the smoke alarm, which used a more conventional battery and electrically-powered method. I don’t know why we ever invested in those adrenaline-powered things. They are just awful and so tedious to maintain.

I woke Deanna and told her to get up. Fast. We dressed the kids, herded them into our room and onto the fire escape. And of course, by we dressing the kids, I mean Deanna got them dressed. I hate having to deal with those little hands and feet. They are too small for my delicate fingers. And of course, by herded, I mean picked up and carried. I don’t know the first thing about proper herding techniques, except it involves some kind of trained dog.

Our fire escape. Until now, it had been our balcony and a convenient route to the back yard. I remember those days of sitting back there with Deanna on lawn chairs and viewing the bustling city of Toronto. How exciting it was to view the city lights there on our fire escape. But now, it was a welcome exit from an apartment rapidly filling with smoke.

That is the scene where I left your readers 2 days ago. And now to continue:

With Dee and the kids outside and the emergency fire crew alerted, I impulsively ran back into the apartment…well actually I had never left the apartment physically, but mentally I was outside the apartment with Dee and the kids. I think that should count. And by impulsively, I mean I had been thinking about doing it all along. But I had only been thinking about it in the brief time after the smoke alarm went off, so for a Patterson that is impulsively.

Anyway, I ran up the stairs to my office and grabbed two other things I had to save: my laptop and my manuscript. I know you are thinking I probably should have only picked up the laptop and left the manuscript, but I had printed the manuscript on really nice paper and I had used the “Best Quality” setting on the printer and everything, so it would have been a shame to let it burn.

It took seconds to get both, but by the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, the acrid smoke burned my lungs. I couldn't see. Trying not to breathe, not to panic, I moved towards the hall. In our hall closet I selected a cloth to put over my mouth to help me with the smoke. I wanted a nice, pretty, flowery cloth; my favourite, to use; but all we had in the closet were those ugly white ones we got from Deanna’s mother for my birthday. I struggled with deciding whether or not I should go into the dirty laundry to try to find my favourite, flowery one, but then I decided I would go for the plain, drab, white one and hope that no one saw me with it. That would be embarrassing. I'm strong, but not strong enough to be seen with the wrong cloth in public. Well, as they say, smoke can kill you, and once I got into the smoke, I realized I should have gone for my nicer, flowery, cloth; because the smoke went right through the cheap white cloth and I could feel myself falling forward.

From the door of our bedroom, two masked firefighters appeared, and by masked, I mean they had oxygen masks on, not that they were masked like bandits. One of them yelled to someone behind him, “We’ve got him! He’s OK!!!” Of course he was wearing his oxygen mask when he said it, so I marveled at his enunciation. I suppose in firefighter school they teach how to properly articulate words so they can be understood when they have oxygen masks on. That’s really quite a skill. I might have to write an article on it some day. The other firefighter stuck his hand out with what appeared to me to be some kind of yellow lobster claw. It was however, an oxygen mask of some sort.

I was given a breath of oxygen and another as they carried me like a doll to the exit, closing our bedroom door behind them. Well, I say carried me like a doll but it was more like one firefighter grabbed me around the waist and hoisted me off the ground while the other firefighter stuck the lobster claw oxygen mask on my face. When I think about it, dolls are usually carried around the neck with their legs and feet dangling, and it wasn’t like that at all. Perhaps I should say they carried me more like someone giving me the Heimlich maneuver while the other person tried to catch what was coming out of my mouth with the oxygen mask. Whatever happened to the good old-fashioned fireman’s carry? There is nothing like being hoisted onto the broad shoulders of a strong man. I remember Josef Weeder and I used to practise fireman’s carries on each other all the time in university. It was quite invigorating.

Despite their bizarre method of carrying me, they continued to carry me down the two flights of stairs leading from our second floor apartment to the back yard. As they did so, I could hear my wife Deanna expressing the tender sounds of concern for my condition as she said, “I left a blanket and our photo albums on the fire escape.” The firefighter responded, “OK! Just get out of the way, please!” I could tell from the firefighter’s tone, this was not the first time Deanna asked about the blanket and photo albums. I could also tell he was single. A married firefighter would have obeyed the commanding wifely voice of my Deanna instantly and retrieved the items to keep her from continuing to ask about them over and over again. That’s what I would have done myself, if I had not been busy being carried by firefighters at the time.

Two pumper trucks were in the lane. At least that’s what I was told. I only saw one myself. Lights from a police car and a rescue vehicle were like fireworks as my eyes adjusted to the scene outside. Of course, now that I think about it, fireworks are usually sparkly and don’t produce that much light. Perhaps I should say the lights were more like miniature suns. No. That’s too strong a term. How about, the lights were blinding me to the one thing I wanted to see more than anything. That should work.

I was safe, but seeing Deanna and the children in the care of the fire crew brought me to tears. As the firefighter who had been giving me the Heimlich let go, so my feet could touch the ground again, I heard him say, “Medic! Get this one to the hospital!” I turned to him and said, “Don’t you mean ‘paramedic’ and shouldn’t he examine me first, before deciding I need to go to the hospital?” The firefighter said, “Hey! If you’re so smart, why did you go back into a burning building?” I started to tell him it was to preserve the manuscript of what would become the great Canadian novel, but I could tell his thinking was too pedestrian, or should I say, “firefightian” to understand the importance of great literature. So, I did not argue the point any further. Instead, as Deanna rushed to embrace me, I told her she was the most important thing in my life, by handing my laptop to her and saying, “Deanna, take my laptop!” Truer words of trust and dedication to another human being have never been spoken before and may never again be said. Entrusted into my wife’s arms was Canada’s literary future, and I knew she would follow through and make sure it was preserved.

As I walked to the rescue vehicle, I could tell my children realized the importance of what I had done for our country. My daughter said, “Mommy! Look! The fire! It’s burning everything! What are we going to have left?” Clutching my laptop in her right arm and gathering my children in her left arm, or was it the laptop in the left arm and the children in her right? It is so difficult to see things when you are being loaded into an emergency vehicle. Anyway, Deanna had them all together so that, in effect, all my children were gathered into her arms. I could hear my wife answering, “Each other.” as I was being loaded into the emergency vehicle. I could feel their concern for my health and well-being, even though they were busy watching the apartment burn instead of standing close by me.

Yes, what we had left was my son, my daughter, my wife, and my book. With those 4 things I can conquer anything. I can tell you little sis, in moments of crisis you realize what is truly important: Your family and great literature.

Little sis, just to let you know, there is a very good chance I will get called to make some speeches about my heroic rescue from our burning apartment, so I may or may not be writing to you about my excitement tomorrow. However, I expect to begin the story again the following day. I know your readers are anxious to hear about what injuries I sustained, so they can keep up with modern Canadian literary history, and I will try not to disappoint them.

Love,
Michael Patterson

As 4 2morrow'z entry, I have a feeling it's gonna have a Christmas theme 2 it! BTW, sorry 2day's post is so much l8r than the usual. I slept l8!

Apes