Don't Call Me Firebomb

"Are you okay?" Carla asks me as I tie my apron around my waist.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"You're limping."

"Yeah, l sprained my ankle last night. My dog got out and I was chasing him."

That wasn't exactly how it happened. The truth is a little more...complicated.

"I would've called out sick if it was me," Carla states.

"I can handle a sprained ankle." I slip the hair tie off my wrist and use it to pull my hair back in a ponytail before I put my uniform cap on.

"Did you watch the News this morning?"

"No. Why? What happened?"

"Firebomb struck again."

"There was a firebomb? Where?"

Carla gives me a 'what the hell kind of rock have you been living under' look.

"I'm talking about the vigilante. Seriously, Penny, do you ever watch the News?"

"Oh, him. Are they calling him Firebomb? I didn't know they'd given him a name." Firebomb? Really?

"Or her. There was a witness last night, and he said the vigilante looked like a woman to him. Body shape."

There was a witness? I hope to God that witness didn't say anything about having seen said vigilante stumble and twist his (or her) ankle while in pursuit of their victim.

"Oh, I'm sure it's a guy," I comment, careful to keep my tone casual. "Vigilantes are almost always men. Besides..." I have to cut myself off mid-sentence when the door swings open and a customer walks up to the counter. "What can we get for you today, Sir?"

"I'll have a small double shot dry cappuccino."

Carla starts working on his drink while I ring him up.

"Besides, what?" She questions, leaning against the counter and looking at me once the customer has left with his cappuccino.

"What?"

"You said vigilantes are almost always men, then you said besides. Besides, what?"

"Oh, besides, look at his M.O. Burning his victims alive? That's not the kind of thing a woman would do. It has to be a guy."

Carla's dark eyes narrow slightly as she thinks about this, her head to one side.

"I guess you have a point," she admits after several moments. "You're probably right."

"Who did he kill last night?" I question.

"Leonard Masanta."

"Was he...was he the guy who was allegedly selling black market firearms?"

"Not allegedly. He was selling them out of his storage unit downtown."

"I thought they said the cops never found enough evidence to convict him."

Carla shrugs her shoulders. "Well, Firebomb must have found some evidence. His victims are never innocent."

She's right about that.

When we hear the front door open I catch a glimpse of Carla's expression before I have the chance to turn around and see who just walked in.

"What's the matter?" I ask my coworker in a low tone, "Is it..."

"It's the crazy latte lady," she confirms. "Have fun. I'm gonna go on my break."

"Hey, come on, you can't dump her on me like that."

"It's your turn, Penny. I had a full-on anxiety attack helping her yesterday." Carla unties her apron and scurries off to the break room.

I turn with a smile which I hope looks genuine enough to face the middle aged woman who seems to derive some sort of perverse delight in verbally abusing me and my coworkers on a daily basis.

"What can I get for you today, Ma'am?"

"Give me a large extra hot nonfat latte." No smile, no 'please'.

When I hand her the cup she takes a sip and scowls.

"It's not hot enough. I said extra hot. Do you know what extra means? It means hotter than you usually make it."

"I warmed the milk up to ten degrees hotter than normal," I explain with the same fake smile plastered on my face.

Her lips pucker up like she's just tasted a lemon.

"Well, it's still too cold, missy. You're going to have to remake it. Do you know what remake means, or does your generation only understand one syllable words? It means you need to make me another one. And do it right this time. Do you think you can do that?"

"Absolutely."

"And remember, I want it extra hot!"

Oh, I can make it extra hot, bitch, I muse to myself as I dump the perfectly good latte down the sink drain and toss the paper cup into the trash. I could make it extra extra hot for you. But I can't do that. Not here.

I almost reach for the whole milk to pour into the metal cup we use for steaming, just for spite. But I have the feeling she would somehow know even if she didn't see me pour it.

While I pull three espresso shots I hold the cup of milk under the steam wand long enough to nearly scald it, which ruins the whole drink according to anyone who actually knows what a latte should taste like. But if that's what she wants then that's what she's going to get.

She takes a sip of the new latte I set down in front of her.

"See, was that so hard?" She sneers as she tosses a single cent into the tip jar on the counter. I find this far more insulting than if she didn't leave a tip at all, which is probably why she does it every day.

Carla rejoins me behind the counter, glancing around nervously.

"Is she gone?"

"Yeah she's gone, chickenshit," I reply. "Next time it's all you."

"Was she awful to you?"

"She's always awful. At least we know she's the worst thing that's going to walk through the door today."

"True," Carla agrees.

"I'm going on my break." I pour myself a cup of coffee (that's one of the perks of working here, we're allowed to help ourselves to as much coffee as we want for free) and make my way to the break room in the back. My sprained ankle is starting to hurt quite a lot at this point and I'm grateful for the chance to sit down for a few minutes.

When I return from my break I find Carla bagging up a croissant from the pastry case for a young man with bright blue dyed hair and a worn out backpack hanging from one arm. Something about the customer makes me uneasy in a way I can't explain. He appears to be in constant motion, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and periodically turning his head to glance back at the front door. His right hand is shoved deep into the pocket of his denim jacket.

"Can I get you anything else, Sir?" Carla offers with a slight note of hesitation. Her gaze meets mine and I can tell that she's picking up weird vibes from this guy too.

"Yeah, you can," he states as he swings the backpack off his shoulder and drops it on the counter. "Open your register and empty it into that."

"Wh...what?" Carla stammers.

"Just do it," I tell her, recalling the training videos I was required to watch on my first day at work.

"I...I can't. I can't move." Her eyes are so wide they seem to take up half of her suddenly bloodless face. Her chest hitches and heaves as she struggles to draw in breath.

"What's taking so long, lady? I said put the money in the bag!"

"You're giving her a panic attack," I tell the young man. My voice shakes just a touch despite my effort to control it.

"Oh, I'll give her more than that if she doesn't put the fuckin' cash in the fuckin' bag." He pulls his right hand out of his pocket to point a handgun at Carla. So much for the crazy latte lady being the worst thing that walks through the door today.

There are silent tears spilling down my coworker's cheeks now, and I can see a puddle of urine pooling around her feet.

I don't think about it. I just act. Drawing in a deep breath I look straight at the robber and exhale a gout of flames.

Carla's stare shifts from his shrieking, sizzling form to me.

"Penny? Did you...did you just..."

"Yeah," I cut her off. "We need to get out of here."

"You...you're Firebomb?!"

"Don't call me that. I can't believe the media gave me that stupid name. I go by Dragoness. Now let's get out of here before..."

I don't have time to finish my sentence before the column of yellow flames that is the would-be robber stumbles (still shrieking like a banshee) into one of the indoor tables, igniting it.

"Carla, we have to go now!" I grab her by the wrist and drag her toward the front door while the flames leap from table to table behind us.

I don't stop until Carla and I are on the other side of the street. Her entire body is shaking and her breath coming in short gasps.

"You...you just...you just ki..."

"I did what I had to do, Carla. He was going to shoot you."

"You c...can breathe f...f..."

"Yeah, I can breathe fire. It's a long story."

"Are you g...going to k...k...kill me too?"

"What?! No. I just saved your life! Do you think I'm some kind of monster?"

"I don...don't kn...know."

I suppose I should have expected this.

"Carla, listen. I need to go and you need to call 911 and get that taken care of." I point across the street to the coffee shop. There are flames licking at the roof now and a growing crowd of spectators has gathered on the sidewalk. Chances are good that 911 has already been dialed.

"Don't h...hurt me. P...please."

"Stop it!" I grab her by the shoulders and give her a rough shake. "I'm not going to hurt you!" I can hear sirens in the near distance. Just as I'd thought, the emergency vehicles are already on their way. "I need to leave and you need to give them a statement when they get here."

"What the hell am I supposed to tell them, Penny?" She is still terrified, but at least she's talking in complete sentences now.

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

I settle back on my couch and scratch my little terrier Chase between his ears as he rests his chin on my leg.

"Time for the News," I comment, picking up the remote.

On the screen Carla, still pale and shaking, is standing in front of the blackened shell that remains of our place of employment. She finches slightly as the reporter shoves a microphone in her face.

"Yeah, I...I was just working," she stammers. "I was alone. My c...coworker c...called off today because she s...sprained her ankle last night. Anyway, this guy came in talking all crazy and he had a b...bottle of kerosene and a lighter. He was yelling and cursing about h...how he was gonna k...kill himself. I t...tried to talk him down but he pointed a g...gun at me and told me to g...get out so I ran. Then...then..."

It's good that she accounted for the gun, but I'm a little apprehensive about what's going to happen when the authorities fail to find the charred remains of a kerosene bottle. Oh well, that's none of my concern. I wasn't even there.

"Meanwhile," I sigh, scratching Chase between his ears again, "guess it's time for me to start looking for a new day job."