Put Out the Fire

The fire was right outside the door. He could see it. He could smell it. He was choking on its smoke. He watched in horror as it burst through the door, as it destroyed the photos of him and his wife and his children, as it ate his couch and chair and table and books, oh his books, they burst into flame, every, single, one, and the fire was relentless, it was relentless, and it was coming for him and there, was, nothing, he, could, do.

Ricardo woke in a sweat, his heart pounding, his mouth open and ready to scream. A loud banging came from the walls followed by a yell,

"Enough, man! You’re not in the war no more! Let me sleep!”

Ricardo gripped his chest and tried to quiet his breathing.

His head pulsed; his throat was dry.

The culprit of his pain lay next to him. Long, slim, and empty, having been consumed the night before.

Ricardo could still taste the vodka and fought the urge to vomit.

He took in his surroundings, and though he’d been in the same spot for several years now, it still felt unfamiliar.

Pizza boxes and beer cans covered the floor.

It smelled of rot and decay.

Like me, Ricardo thought.

I’m decaying. I’ve decayed.

He got up. Went to the bathroom. Stared at himself in the mirror.

You’re not in the war no more, the man had said.

Except I am, Ricardo thought.

Ricardo stared into his own eyes and his mind wandered.

“Daddy!”

Isabel reached her little arms toward him. Ricardo picked her up and twirled her around, her laughter nothing short of music to his ears.

His wife, Cindy, wrapped her arms around his waist.

He could smell her lemon shampoo and breathed deep.

He watched his teenage son catch Pokemon with his friends. Their eyes glued to their phones as they walked around in search of the invisible creatures.

“They look like zombies,” he told his wife.

“It’s what the kids do these days,” she replied, “At least they’re outside.”

Ricardo couldn’t argue with that.

As he looked out at the green grass and the people walking and running and the children playing, and as he held his daughter in his arms and leaned his head against his wife’s cheek, he felt a moment of bliss.

Nothing will ever top this, he thought.

Nothing will ever be better than this.

A knock disturbed his dreams.

He looked towards the door but made no move to answer.

If he ignored it, maybe they’d go away. Maybe they’d leave him in peace.

The knock came again.

He scrubbed his hand over his face and went to the door.

He stood there.

Had they gone away?

The knock came again.

He opened the door in a fury and heard a thump.

“Ow!”

He looked down to see a little girl dressed in girl scout’s outfit.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“It’s fine,” she said with a wide smile, “Wanna buy some girl scout cookies?”

He looked at her and saw Isabel.

“Um, sir?”

He felt himself slowly shake his head. He darted inside and closed the door.

“Sir, are you ok?” came the soft voice from behind the door.

“I’m…I’m fine,” he said, “I don’t want any cookies. Go away.”

He felt like a grinch. Like a sad old man in a bathrobe telling the kids to get off his lawn.

He looked down at his tattered bathrobe.

I’m a walking stereotype.

“But I have thin mints,” the girl squealed.

Ricardo barked out a laugh and scared himself.

When was the last time he had laughed?

“Hold on,” he said.

He went to his wallet and grabbed a $5.

He opened the door and was again taken with the girl’s resemblance to his own child.

“One box of thin mints, please,” he said, handing the girl his $5.

She grabbed a box from her bag and handed it to him.

“Thank you so much, sir!” she beamed.

He watched her start to walk away.

She stopped and turned.

“Why are you sad?” she asked.

He stared.

Without answering, he went back inside and closed the door.

And locked it.

He was about to start pouring the vodka into his mouth when there was another knock at the door.

This girl is relentless, he thought.

But when he opened the door, there was a giant man standing there.

“Hey,” the man said.

“Uh. Hey,” Ricardo replied.

The man was fidgety and kept running his hands over his pants. The gesture looked silly on such a big man, but Ricardo patiently waited.

“I live next door,” the man said, “Name’s Gilbert.”

“Oh,” Ricardo said, “Ok.”

“I, uh, I’m sorry for giving you such a rough time,” Gilbert said.

“It’s fine,” Ricardo responded, “I’m sorry for screaming.”

Gilbert shook his head, “Don’t apologize. I should’ve introduced myself sooner, you know? It’s been what? Four years, now?”

“Four years and 15 days,” Ricardo said automatically.

Gilbert stared.

“I, uh, I read about you. In the paper,” Gilbert mumbled.

So, there it was.

“Ah,” Ricardo said, itching to get back inside. To close the door. To fade into a dreamless stupor.

Gilbert glanced behind Ricardo and Ricardo knew he was looking at the messy apartment. The pizza boxes and cans and bottles.

“My girl is having a barbecue tomorrow. Come,” Gilbert said.

There was a demand in his tone.

Ricardo shook his head.

“Thank you, but-

“I’ll knock on your door at 12. Be ready,” Gilbert said walking away.

Ricardo stared. He had an urge to follow Gilbert. To jump on him and pound his face in. To kick him in the balls. He wanted to see the big man crumble. Who the hell did he think he was? Right as he was about to commit violence, Gilbert turned and looked at him.

Ricardo could see the sympathy and the pity and the sincerity.

“Knock on my door tomorrow and I’ll pound your face in,” Ricardo said slowly and clearly and slammed his door shut.

Couldn’t the world leave him in peace?

Ricardo lay on his bed staring at the cracks in the ceiling.

His window blew open and he bolted up, eyes wide.

The wind screamed and wailed and Ricardo watched as the things in his room whipped around. Beer cans hit the walls; old food hit the ceilings.

Ricardo gripped his blanket and held it close, as if the flimsy material could protect him.

And as the wind slapped his face, he felt like his chest was going to explode.

It was just as windy that night, he thought, The wind was relentless.

“I can come home,” Ricardo tells Cindy.

“It’s just wind Ric,” she says, “We’ll be fine.”

“They’re worried about fires,” he says staring at the tv weather man.

“If there’s a fire, we’ll leave,” Cindy says, “You don’t have to come home for this. Seriously.”

Ricardo feels an ache in his stomach.

“It feels weird to be here,” he says, “I feel like we haven’t spent a day apart since we’ve been married.”

“You’re making moves, babe,” Cindy insists, “You’re making it happen. Don’t worry about us. We’ll see you soon.”

And Ricardo dreams of fire even though he wasn’t there.

Ricardo got up to close the window and as he did, he saw a shadow move at the corner of his eye.

He whipped his head around and saw nothing.

The wind continued to wail and scream and slap against his arms.

His eyes darted around the room.

Images of fire and screams and people running invaded his mind and his thoughts and he felt paralyzed in place.

Who was he to be alive?

Who was he to be here?

Glass smashed and sprayed and cut his face.

And as he reached up to wipe the blood from his cheek, he saw his wife standing on the street below.

She was dressed in white, and her hair was blowing, and she stared up at him in peaceful silence.

Ricardo stared back.

Is it you?

In her eyes he could see their entire lives. Their first meeting. Their first kiss. Their first trip together. Their first fight. Their second fight. The birth of his son. The birth of his daughter. He could see it and he could feel it and he wanted to jump out the window and join her.

And her eyes narrowed and her arms lifted and the wind screamed in his head that it wasn’t his time. That there was so much left to do.

That he would see them soon.

Ricardo woke in a sweat. He jumped from his bed and looked around the room. Everything was as it was.

He raced to the window and opened it.

Nothing below.

The night was silent.

Ricardo wiped the sweat from his brow.

He wrapped his arms around himself, imagining they were different arms.

Was it you?

A soft breeze blew, and it smelled like lemons.

A knock at the door.

Ricardo opens it.

Gilbert looks him over and smiles, “You showered.”

Ricardo barks out a laugh. He winces, still not used to the sound.

“Ready?” Gilbert asks.

“Ready,” Ricardo says.