Jay Goldman

There I was, calmly eating dinner in my Mom’s condo, when I happened to glance out the window and notice that there was a fire merrily burning away on the balcony of a building across the way.

“What am I seeing?” I said, around the fork full of salad I had just put into my dumbstruck mouth.

Everyone turned to look but didn’t see what I could see.

“What?” they all said.

And so the binoculars came out and the fire was confirmed. Something happily blazing away on the railing and spilling fire all over the floor of the balcony. We called 9-1-1 and tried to explain where it was since we didn’t know which building the balcony was attached to or which street it faced onto. Moments later: fire trucks! Except — wait — are they going the wrong way?

So I ran out the condo, down the hall, in place while the elevator came, in place in the elevator, out the lobby, and down the street. I caught up to the truck around the corner where it had come to a stop, clearly confused about the lack of fire.

“Are… you… respon…ding…to…a…9…1…1…call?” I gasped. The annoyed navigator nodded. “You went the wrong way. Follow me!” I ran back the other way, two fire trucks backing up the street madly beeping and trying to save lives in reverse gear. We returned around the corner and I pointed out the afflicted balcony, still cheerfully on fire.

“Got it. Can you run around to the other street and point it out to the Chief? Guy in a white shirt next to a van.” And so I ran around, found the Chief, and pointed.

Twenty minutes later, the owners of the apartment connected to the balcony were minus one front door, the building (which turned out to be the retirement home!) was safe, and the fire was no more. I returned to my salad, happy in the knowledge that I had vanquished a minor balcony fire by summoning four of the cities finest and redest of trucks. As the Chief said: “Let’s just be happy this isn’t more exciting.” Amen.