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To Clay Kenyon's next pieceLight My Fire
You never know when the day is going to be thrown out of order, and that's best. I'd just spent the morning chatting and getting my hair trimmed by Susan, all that black Christian beauty spinning around me, and as I drive away from her little place of work off Seminary, I leave a bit of me behind - ha ha. At the stoplight, I pick up my copy of Dianne Feinstein: Never Let Them See You Cry. The light turns green, and I push on, driving and reading, the book propped on my dashboard. Have you ever done this? It makes most books tolerable.
As usual, I begin to drift a little, mentally, which often happens around the time I top 55 on the roads of Oakland. I know I'll be seeing my friend Alan at lunch, and wonder what his fate will be. Truth is, he's survived this long, there's really no question whether he knows how to survive - it's just where. I take the 580 south to Hayward, hitting the flow of traffic for a good 3 minutes and then, suddenly, there it is.
A great roiling cloud of grey-brown smoke off the eastern hillside - enormous, and I know the fire is fresh. I'm instantly remembering the summer of 1990 in San Jose, and the rampant arson which annihilated 20 buildings and homes - the perpetrator(s) never caught. I witnessed at least half of them - so fine. One night, the old basilica on Santa Clara and 8th burned for the entire night, and we all watched it, out of time, feeling the glory. That lot is still bare today.
I love fires, can't resist them, never even wanted to. I head straight towards it, just behind a EBMUD truck which opted to get off the freeway as well and see if he could be of any assistance. Past the church on Mountain, and I get out. The deli run by the easterner and his three lovely daughters where we got our lunches in my Zoo days is just down the road. The air is baking heat, everywhere, with no remorse, and the fire trucks come screaming one after the other into position - past the neighbors out on their lawns left wondering if they'll have a home to re-enter in 3 hours.
Up the side of the hill by the church is a path, and at the end of the path I see great gouts of smoke and flecks of orange wildfire. Once I get into the wood, the heat presses me. I can see the hillside in front of me, coated in flames licking out from a central char-spot with a diameter of 50 yards. Then I look up to the left, where another hill blocks my view, and see flecks of flame over the peak. The situation isn't looking very healthy - the conditions are too ripe for an out-of-control conflagration: less than 5% humidity, lots of dead bottlebrush and eucalyptus flora, a medium breeze, and difficult access for the firefighters. The crew I see pushing up the side of the hill, 5 members, are wending towards the southern perimeter of the fire, smothering it in chemically-enhanced waterspray as they go. They are making progress, but that bit towards the top of the hill frightens me. It looks like the heart of the sun.
When I get frightened, I move closer. Though I'm alone on the hillside, many yards away from the flames, I feel nervous, culpable and guilty for the proximity high I'm getting. I know I didn't start the damned fire, but what is it about this destruction that I adore? I want to get naked and caper closer to the flames, but I can't - there's too many cops - so I just unbutton my shirt. That will have to do. My shirt is white, and I know that I'm very visible from the street where the crowd is gathering - but no one seems to be looking at anything besides the fire. I remember when I pulled up to the curb, and began to walk towards the hill, a PG&E bucketlift truck slowed beside me, and the driver gave me a long look - apparently profiling me and none-too-generously so. That's OK. There are things I look like - the other night while working in Alta-Bates Juvenile Center I was told I looked like "a bum" and "Jesus Christ" back-to-back - but an arsonist, no. I'm not wearing any black - especially not a black hood (in this heat?) - and my arsonist associates say that this garb is a must.It comes to me that this time that I am currently existing in - this envelope of moments - is very very real. Everything has a sharp lucidity despite the smearing of smoke and ash in the air. From the immense vibrating hues of the fire, there is a playful & dancing activity - the flames seem to effortlessly warp 3-dimensional reality - but I can sense - see, hear, smell - everything. There's a torrent of sound arising, and it seems that every firetruck in Alameda County is on its way here - in so many different colors, like M&M's - in hopes of smothering this bright baby . The flames convulse and shimmy their way outward, seeming to prowl for fresh purchase in a microcosmic manifest destiny. I take a sip of my Big Gulp (Dr. Pepper) and I think, "Fire has no mind." Then I think, my god, that's appealing. Seconds slide by, and I know this is the longest 10 minutes I will know this year.
Sure enough, I begin to feel the advent of some subterranean and totally irresponsible arousal. I've grown so accustomed to it that i know the symptoms - my skin gets sticky and there's a sense like another face is trying to push through mine. My underbelly is a nest of snakes and my blood begin to sing in my ears. I quickly check the sky for sight of the moon, then massage my incisors with both index fingers for reassurance. As anyone who's been in proximity to a wildfire would tell you, there's that sense of awe and terror which triggers crazy, somewhat apocalyptic inquiries. Will it ever end, and, really, do I want it to? Part of me would rather jump in, perhaps holding the hands of a virgin or two. I start thinking of approaching a policewoman I see directing rubberneckers through at the Edwards overpass and asking her where the nearest trepanning parlor might be, but i just know the response i'll get. If you feel like an anachronism, you probably are...
In the end, it was that thought that got me moving back to the car - but not before letting a stream of urine go against the side of a pillar of eucalyptus, like the dog that I am. Time for lunch. I drove north on Mountain Ave. and hit the freeway entrance and was gone from that crucible of a place.
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