You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

FIRE ON MISSISSIPPI AVENUE

I was awakened by the sound of men shouting. I rolled over in bed to see Jean, standing in front of the window, her naked body illuminated by flashing red and orange lights of emergency vehicles. “Your building’s on fire,” she exclaimed. I jumped out of bed and into my pants and shirt, grabbed the keys to the shop, and dashed out. I ran across the yard and down stair to Mississippi Avenue. There in front of the shop, with smoke pouring out of the roof, a group of firemen stood with hoses ready to attack the fire. They were waiting for a young fireman with a large ax. He raised the ax and took aim at the latch on the steel door of the shop. I ran up to them yelling, “WAIT! Use the key?” The young firefighter let the ax fall onto his shoulder as he turned to look at me. His expression was that of a disappointed teenager who had been turned down for a date. He pointed to the latch and asked, “You got a key?” I gave it to him. He cautiously unlatched the door and pushed it open with his boot. Smoke billowed out as two of the firemen stepped up to the doorway. Beyond them, the shop was filled with smoke and flame. Manning two large hoses, they washed down the interior of the shop with a large, wide spray. These were not garden hoses. The volume of water they released onto the fire was massive. They fought back the flame and worked their way into the shop continuing to wash away all signs of fire. Other firemen were spraying water at the fire through the partially collapsed roof. Once the fire was knocked down, the firemen pulled smoldering furnishings from the shop out into the street, where they soaked them again.

I watched all this from across the street. My concern was for Leonard, the man who rented this shop space from me. My building insurance would cover the cost of reconstruction but not the loss of his contents. I doubted that Leonard had insurance for his contents. In less than fifteen minutes, the fire crew had put out the blaze. A river of black water poured out of the door of what had been Grandfather’s Little Market. The firemen quickly turned to the task of loading equipment back onto their fire trucks, laughing and joking, quite pleased with themselves. They climbed into their fire engines and drove away, leaving a steaming pile of debris blocking half of Mississippi Avenue. It was 2:00 AM. I climbed the stairs and joined Jean for what was left of the night’s sleep.

REBUILDING

I woke up early the next morning and went out to survey the fire damage and clear the debris out of the street. As I was hauling the charred furnishings out of the traffic lane, a man in a suit approached and introduced himself as the fire inspector. He had come to examine the scene and determine the cause of the fire. He asked questions about the financial status of the business, questions clearly intended to determine if I had set the fire. He inquired about Leonard and how his business was doing. He also spoke with David and Barbara, the couple who rented the apartment above the shop. He determined that the fire was caused when David carelessly tossed his cigarette butt. David intended to send it over the roof parapet and onto the street below. But instead, it fell short and landed in dry leaves that had been blown against the parapet. The cigarette started a fire among the leaves, which ignited the bitumen tar membrane roofing and burned through the plywood roof deck, pouring burning tar down into the shop, setting its contents ablaze. David denied it and said it must have been a vagrant who threw his cigarette butt up onto the roof from the avenue below.

When Leonard came to work to find his shop had burned, he was not as distraught as I had anticipated. His reaction was to ask me to rebuild it as a delicatessen. He wanted to feature his special southern barbecue. He asked that I provide two additional sinks. He would provide the rest of the interior equipment and furnishings.

Over the months of that summer and into the fall, I came home every day from my job as a project manager, changed clothes, and strapped on my carpenter’s apron to reconstruct the charred remains of Grandfather’s Little Store into Grandfather’s Delicatessen.