Chapter 5 #2
“Harold?” he adds. “Are you in there?”
“We’re in here!” a woman yells back.
“Open the door!” Dustin shouts.
“No!” the woman shouts. “You can’t come in!”
“If you don’t open it, we’re going to have to force entry!” Dustin shouts.
There’s a beat of silence, then the low murmuring of voices.
Then the same female voice shouts, “Absolutely not!”
Dustin looks at me. “Irons.”
I set the halligan. My hands are steady despite the fact that my skin thrums. I’m so focused, I could cut through the door with my gaze.
“We’re opening the door,” Dustin shouts. “Stand back.”
A chorus of elderly voices erupts from the other side—overlapping, panicked. “No!” “Stop!” “Don’t come in!”
“We need you to open the door!” Dustin shouts again.
“No can do!” a male voice shouts.
“We’re coming in!” Dustin shouts.
“No, no, no—”
“DON’T YOU DARE—”
“Harold, find your pants—”
Dustin doesn’t wait. The axe comes down and the door pops open.
Nothing could have prepared me for what’s waiting for us on the other side.
Six senior citizens, half-dressed, moving left and right, colliding into one another like startled birds. Clothing is strewn everywhere—socks slung over lamps, pants pooled around ankles, shoes scattered across the carpet and more wrinkled skin is exposed than I ever thought I’d see in a lifetime.
“What are we looking at here?” Dustin asks me quietly, his eyes bugged in shock.
“I’m not sure, but I’m pretty sure I’d rather not be. Where’s the fire?”
He scans the room and my eyes follow his.
It was a card game, or so it appears.
One man sits frozen at a folding table in nothing but boxers, hands clasped in his lap like he’s waiting for the game to resume. Everything around him is a whir of motion and noise.
And in the center of this human tornado stands a woman who can’t be more than five feet tall, wearing a full girdle, industrial-strength bra, and the expression of a deer in headlights.
Her eyes are wide and her mouth forms an “O,” but her arms flail around, shooing at me and Dustin like we’re pests at a picnic, not the two firefighters here to save her from a fire.
“You cannot be in here,” the tiny woman snaps.
Dustin blinks. “Wilma—”
“We’re not … This isn’t …” Wilma sputters. “You have to leave!”
She does a quick sideways shuffle—three steps in quick, flustered succession, facing us the whole time as if she can’t afford to take her eyes off us. When she reaches the folding table, she squats and hunkers down so only her head is popping out over the tabletop like it’s being served for dinner.
“What are you doing?” the man at the table asks her.
“I’m being discreet.”
“I smell smoke!” another man yells.
“Get some pants on, Walter!” Wilma shouts. “And throw me my dress! Loretta, stop turning in circles! Frank, cover yourself!”
The man she called Frank is wearing briefs and a tank undershirt. He lunges toward a side table, knocking over a chair on his way. Then he grabs the lampshade off the lamp and clamps it in front of himself.
The other seniors in the room scramble around, grabbing items of clothing and trying to hurriedly dress themselves. It’s a flurry of limbs and fabric. I’m still trying to identify where the smoke is coming from. It’s in the air, but the source is unclear. Cigar, maybe?
“Poker,” the man at the table blurts. “It had to be poker.”
“Strip poker,” Frank corrects him.
Wilma looks at Dustin, a frantic look in her eye, her head still the only part of her clearly visible from where she’s hunkered behind the card table. “Dustin, don’t you pay them any mind. Now, kindly take your friend and go back outside.”
The smoke starts to permeate the room.
“We can’t do that, Wilma,” Dustin explains calmly. “We’re here to rescue you.”
“No. No. That’s not necessary. You need to skedaddle. And pronto.”
“The cigar’s catchin’ fire!” Frank shouts, stomping on a spot in the carpet. He jumps back. “Ow! Oh man, that’s hotter than a biscuit out of the oven!”
The cigar. I see it now.
“Everyone, calm down!” Dustin shouts. “We need to evacuate the room calmly and quickly.”
“Keep your pants on, Dustin,” the man wearing only boxers yells.
“Look who’s talking,” Frank says to the man.
“No one is going anywhere,” Wilma says with a note of panic in her voice. “Loretta is still exposed.”
“I’m exposed? What do you think you are?” Loretta says, grabbing a pair of men’s trousers off the back of a chair and hopping around precariously while she tugs them on. They’re about five sizes too big, so she grips the waistline and holds them up like a man going down a waterfall in a barrel.
“Bathrobe!” Wilma shouts. “Someone get me a bathrobe!”
“I don’t have one!” Harold says.
“Then find my dress!” she shouts.
“I don’t even own a bathrobe,” Frank says.
Loretta says, “Mine’s in the laundry.”
“Walter has my slippers,” Harold says.
“Do not,” the man who must be Walter says.
“Get dressed, everybody!” Wilma shouts. “You just know we’re going to be the talk of the town!”
“Oh, let ’em talk,” Loretta says, clutching the men’s trousers at her waist and glancing around at the clothing strewn everywhere.
The carpet smolders brighter, a flicker of a flame blooming to a few inches tall.
“I’m getting out of here!” Harold announces. He stands from the folding chair and heads toward the door.
“Do NOT go out like that!” Wilma screams, jumping up, knocking the table, rushing to step in front of Harold, her arms outstretched. “Someone give Harold something to wear! You can’t go down there in your skivvies!”
“Let me out!” Harold says to Wilma.
“Not like that, you don’t!” she shouts.
“Extinguisher,” I say to Dustin. He hands it to me. I step behind Wilma and unload the extinguisher onto the carpet. White powder explodes across the room, coating furniture and splattering all over the back of Wilma’s girdle.
The flame dies, leaving a cloud of lingering smoke behind.
“Let’s clear out!” Dustin shouts, attempting to gain control again.
Loretta shouts, “Wilma! I found your dress!”
Wilma grabs her dress from Loretta, slips it over her head and says, “All right. Now we may evacuate.”
“For the love of Dolly Parton,” Dustin groans, standing in the doorway and holding it open. “Everyone exit, please.”
“Do not bring Dolly into this,” Wilma snaps on her way out the door. “That’s sacrilegious."
Frank follows behind her, muttering, “I wonder if Dolly ever played strip poker.”
“Not with the likes of you,” Wilma says. “That’s for certain.”
Wilma looks back at Dustin. “You're not going to tell my grandkids about this, are you?”
“Not if you all follow me downstairs without any more trouble,” Dustin says.
Patrick’s voice comes through our mics. “What's going on up there?”
“Nothing,” Dustin answers. “We've got it handled. Just a bunch of naked seniors with a carpet burn.”
“Can you say that again?” Patrick asks.
Dustin answers, "The carpet was on fire. The seniors were undressed. We're on it."
Patrick’s laughter rings through our lapel mics. Greyson’s soft chuckle follows. I wish I were there to catch a glimpse of what his face looks like when he’s really smiling or laughing. I may never get another chance.
“Fire’s out,” I say into my lapel mic.
“Copy,” Greyson responds.
Dustin leads the way and I bring up the rear as we escort the six residents down the stairs and out onto the lawn.
On the drive back to the station, Dustin relays the incident to Patrick and Greyson.
The four of us burst into laughter—even Greyson laughs.
The sound rings through the cab for a beat and I exhale some of the tension balled up between my shoulders.
I can't force myself to look away from Greyson.
His whole face transforms—creases alongside his eyes.
And, heaven help me, the man has a dimple.
Good thing I'm not looking for a relationship, or I'd be in trouble.