Too Close for Comfort

It was a few minutes before 10:00 on Tuesday night. My parents, my brother and I were in the living room crowded around the TV finishing up an episode of Law & Order SVU. My brother had been sitting on the sofa closest to the window. He stood up and stretched, tilting his body to look outside. That's when he half-jumped back, and yelled "FIRE!"

The rest of us shrieked at the same time and bolted to the window. Huge, flickering orange flames were shooting up from an apartment window in the building just next door to us. Less than 100 feet away. On the second floor, facing us-- mirroring us.

My eyes twitched. "Shut the windows!" my mom screamed. Black smoke was spilling from the burning apartment. We all rushed to our rooms and slammed shut every window, sealing off any open nook or space. This was the most we could do. We would've called 911, but the piercing wail of sirens was already fast approaching.

While we were technically out of harm's way at this point, I feverishly threw my wallet, phone, and keys into a bag anyway. I slipped into sneakers and pulled a sweatshirt over my head. By the time I reached the kitchen window to see a crowd of residents from both buildings (including my father) on the ground below-- looking upward, open-mouthed, some pulling out phones and taking pictures-- a team of firefighters was already halfway up the fire escape.

In a matter of seconds, the image of the vicious flames was replaced by gushing jets of water. There was something strangely beautiful about it. Maybe it's because I'd never seen a house fire extinguished right in front of me before. Or perhaps I interpreted the scene metaphorically as forces of good (cool, clean water) triumphing over evil (hot, harmful fire). Either way, I thought to myself, Thank God we're four blocks away from a firehouse.

After the fire was out, the firemen began to spray down the charred apartment from the inside-out. One of the jets briefly hit our window. Good thing we'd closed them. Firefighters were also airing out the apartment directly above the scene of the fire, talking and motioning to the older couple who lived there. Even from a distance I could see that their TV was still on, tuned into Game 6 of the World Series. The Yankees were winning.

My dad, a member of the co-op board, returned from outside. He'd gathered some fast facts-- the fire was contained to the one apartment, so it didn't spread to any other units or floors. And no one was home at the time, which meant that nobody died or got hurt. A true miracle, considering how many people-- senior citizens, families, children-- could have been affected.

Gradually the crowd dispersed, and I crawled into bed. I didn't fall asleep until two hours later.

When I first saw the blaze, I'd automatically assumed the worst: people must have been trapped inside, doomed to a horrible death. And although my dad reassured us that we were too far away for the fire to reach us shortly after my brother's discovery, I had panicked nevertheless. Truth be told, the mere visual of a human structure burning makes my stomach churn.

Is this my post-9/11 syndrome showing itself, nearly a decade later? My mother is convinced, but I'm just not sure. Whether or not I bore witness to terror much worse years ago, nothing like this has ever happened so close to home during the seven and a half years that my family has lived in our co-op. Freak accidents are perhaps even more invasive than organized attacks. Originating from no pre-planned, intentionally malicious actions, they render us totally vulnerable. Our lives become fragile as glass, breakable at any instant in the hands of circumstance and fate.

For the past few days, I've had to walk past the burn marks on the side of the building next door on my way to work. The jagged blackness managed to travel up the wall to the third and fourth floors. Such remnants are a constant reminder: It could've been anyone.

If that gives me some small sense of relief, the feeling is fleeting. It could've been us.