The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire

Picture this: You’re settling into the morning coffee when you just happen to notice smoke billowing from the back of your apartment. ‘Fancy that,’ you think, taking another sip of the post-dawn java; ‘my house is on fire.’

For anyone that has experienced an escape from a burning building, time freezes when an uncontrolled flames are lapping the edge of one’s worldly possessions. Seconds seem like hours, as any semblance of rational evaporates into the burgeoning plumes of fetid smoke. There’s a voice that says ‘this can’t possibly be happening’ while the eyes transmit images of shriveling vinyl siding peel and heat-shattered windows.

The adrenal gland kicks in and suddenly disbelief becomes primal. Save anything dear -anything near -and get the fuck out. The sirens blare through the city as a cadre of firefighters charge into action. But to the victim, everything is still moving slow; cripplingly slow.

They make their first entrance, a smashing blow through the front door. Moments later, a chair smashes out a window; an ax through another; what was once a cozy hovel is quickly turning into the block’s largest fireplace.

Then there is the hope; a scattered convoluted thought that maybe the blaze hasn’t consumed the desk with your passport; the drawer with your family pictures; the bedroom jewelry chest. Maybe the water battling down flames on the roof hasn’t trickled through the floorboards to your laptop in the living room. But this hope diminishes with each flame extinguished by the blasting hoses.

House fires suck. And for the 10 poor bastards left homeless by the Grand Avenue blaze, the suck is all too real and tangible. Anyone lucky enough to salvage anything from the disastrous blaze will have to contend with the putrid stench of char and creosote for months to come. It’s an inescapable essence that will remind them of the fateful day where their lives were put on the griddle and scrambled like 5 a.m. eggs at Compton’s.

But knocking back a few cocktails doesn’t suck. In fact, the dulling sensation of booze is often a welcome solace to those suffering the throngs of sudden tragedy. And it’s an even better way for those who feel bad for the victims to lend a helping hand.

In other words, find some time on the Lord’s day to pay homage to the recently homeless. The Local, a dapper establishment across from the fire-ravaged home, is sponsoring an all-day booze bender for the bereft in their time of need. Area vendors have donated all the fried dead birds, mind-numbing grain and pint-filling kegs for the affair, so that victims of this disaster can right themselves along their respective paths through life.

So this is an all-points-bulletin to the Spa City boozers to swing by the Local Sunday for a tipple or six. For the other so-called non-drinkers, there was never a better time to start; just think: it’s for a good cause and you might just find a new hobby. Out-of-towners, you can help too: Just contact the powers that be. And for you church-going time-frugal go-getters, the affair spans from noon to midnight, so there’s really no excuse to blow this thing off. Just think, you’re doing the Lord’s work.