Writer’s block isn’t a thing for me. Sure, some story problems require more effort than others to put them in a stranglehold, but when a story in progress starts actin’ a fool, I just pivot to something else and let my subconscious or the muses or my life experience or The Great Whomever—or whatever you want to name it—figure it out for me while I send a dear friend a note of gratitude or compile a list of insults to hurl at canyon cyclists, like “Too bad that lycra’s not tight enough to end your gene pool.”

I keep a long list of stories I’m planning to write, but sometimes none of them are calling to me. Timing and mood definitely play a part, so when the timing feels off or my spirits are low, that list gets neglected. Such was the situation earlier this week. I had no plan for what I was going to whip up today. Nothing was calling.

So I opened myself up a little. I paid attention more. I let my gaze linger longer. I listened for the emotion in every word spoken, even the clucks of the chickens. I noted the scents of everything I smelled, cataloging the aromatic layers of the neighborhood fireplaces burning almond and maple. I made myself vulnerable. This is the storyteller’s trick for willing material into existence.

And the universe did not disappoint. On Friday, at 6:15 a.m., I drop my son off for zero period and then drive back home. Pouring my second cup of coffee, I hear a loud pop, crane my head to the window, and realize I haven’t yet opened the chicken coop. As the chickens file out of the coop, I marvel at the low-hanging fog that’s tumbling down the alley behind our house. Next I catch a whiff of something acrid and pungent, like the smell of plastic burning. And then, another pop.

I pivot to the fence and peek over, which is when it becomes clear that the fog is not fog. It’s smoke, coming from a neighbor’s house, because the house is on fire.

I run out our back gate, fumbling for my phone while screaming, “Fire!” to wake up the neighbors. Quiet, calm, and cold. Most of the neighbors probably haven’t yet had their first cups of coffee.

Stuff your stocking

I love coffee, the ritual of it, yes, but also for its ability to snap the world into focus and get the creative juices firing. I’m sure most coffee drinkers feel the same. Well, if you really want to feel some pick-me-up, try running toward a house fire that’s just two houses down from your own in the middle of a live oak forest that hasn’t seen nearly enough rain in a few years. I can practically chew the adrenaline I’m tasting.

I run about twenty-five paces to the fire, flames lapping and curling outside the window of the structure. As I dial 911, my neighbor who lives right next door, in between my home and the house on fire, ambles out onto his deck.

His name is Gray Wolf. He’s a Mohawk native with a face like a topographical map and two gray braids long enough that you could jump rope with them if you tied them together. He looks like he could be 150 years old, except for the fact that he’s wearing an Iron Maiden T-shirt and has the calm demeanor of a man who spends the better part of his day smoking homegrown weed.

Joy for sale

“Gray Wolf, do you know if they’re home?”

The old Mohawk turns and looks at the flames, which are about fifteen feet from his head. “I sure hope not,” he says, all folksy like, as if he’s a guest star on The Andy Griffith Show.

911 is still ringing on my speakerphone. I take the opportunity to alert the neighborhood again. “Fire!” I scream.

Gray Wolf takes my lead. He starts screaming, too. But it’s a little disconcerting. His face goes from absolute calm contentment to Book of Revelation intensity as he bellows “Fire!” And then his face returns to calm contentment before he repeats the cycle. And the entire time, he’s maintaining eye contact with me.

I turn to aim my voice in different directions, and each time I spin, I clock that Gray Wolf is echoing my screams while staring right at me. The smoke is really billowing now, and the flames are rising higher, and all I can think is that Gray Wolf is a nice enough guy but definitely not the last face I want to see if I’m going to burn alive.

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Finally, the 911 operator answers and breaks the awkward tension. “911. What’s your emergency?” I don’t know if 911 operators are trained in regards to tone, but this 911 operator definitely needs to be put on a performance improvement plan. The way she says emergency is dripping with a passive aggression reserved for sitcom mothers-in-law and tech support.

I don’t make the situation any better, though. Usually, I’m good in emergencies, but something about Gray Wolf’s gaze, the heat rolling off the house fire, and the fact that I haven’t had my second cup of coffee lowers my IQ to levels that could only be described as Cro-Magnon. The exchange went something like this:

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“Fire!”

“Sir, where are you located?”

“The canyon. We’re in the canyon. There’s a fire!”

Gray Wolf hears me say “fire” and takes this as a cue to run through the cycle again. From calm contentment to Book of Revelation. All eye contact. “Fire!”

I follow his lead now because the 911 operator doesn’t seem all that helpful. “Fire!”

“Sir, I need you to calm down,” the 911 operator says.

“There’s a fire!” I reply, the subtext being, Don’t tell me to calm down, woman! I feel the fiery flames of hell upside my ass!

“Fire!” Gray Wolf repeats the cycle.

“Where are you located?”

“In the canyon!”

“Which canyon?”

Preschoolers can answer questions about where they live, but proper nouns are escaping me in this moment of crisis. Thankfully, I’m on speakerphone. Gray Wolf starts saying the name of our canyon the way you might talk to a baby when you’re trying to get it to say mama.

“What’s your address?” the 911 operator asks.

One of the things that frustrates my wife is that I don’t remember the names of people I’ve met multiple times. I try to explain to her that I don’t remember anyone unless I have a story about them. I could have met the Queen of England forty-seven times, but if she didn’t say or do anything interesting in our exchange, she’d just smoosh together in my memory with the hundreds of other boring Elizabeths I’ve endured in this life.

Make 'em laugh

“Your address?” the 911 operator repeats.

I’ve never had any reason to remember the name of the alley behind our house. But I do know that all the streets in our neighborhood are named after trees, so I just start tossing out species: “Birch! Maple! Aspen! Cherry! Chestnut! Sassafras!” Every time I shout a tree name, Gray Wolf just shakes his head as if to say, That ain’t it.

Finally, he recalls the name of the street and I communicate it to the 911 operator. Never once does Gray Wolf look at me like I am the very definition of a moron or an asshole or some combination of the two. Which means he’s either astonishingly nonjudgmental or catastrophically bad at assessing character flaws.

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The 911 operator assures us that fire engines are on the way. I ask Gray Wolf if he needs any help getting out of his house. He turns and looks at the fire, which has about doubled now. “Nah,” he says. “I’ll be all right.” And then he holds the eye contact and starts to scream “Fire!”

We’ve lived in this neighborhood eight years now. This is the third structure fire on this street since we moved in. Gray Wolf has lived here for decades. No telling how many fires he’s shouted out.

I hear the sirens, which bring a little calm. I spend the next few minutes knocking on doors, and the neighbors drag all their garden hoses down the street and knock back as much of the fire as they can while the firefighters stage and hook into the hydrants.

Unconfirmed, but the rumor is that a space heater had been left unattended. The house is lost, but nobody is hurt. This is not the story I wanted to tell, a screwball dark comedy between me and a Mohawk centenarian that left our neighbors traumatized. But it has left me thinking about how I had opened myself up. Maybe if I hadn’t, I might not have heard that pop, smelled that burning plastic, seen that smoke that seemed like fog. Making a trauma funny is light work. A tragedy, though? That’s a heavier lift, one I’m glad I didn’t have to write.

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One more time, if you haven’t bought the anthology, just click the hound below and get copies for yourself, your friends and neighbors, your enemies—for everyone in your life who could use a laugh.

Lori is back in the hospital with pneumonia, complications from a compromised ability to swallow. The struggle continues. Many thanks to everyone who contributed to this lovely family. If you haven’t yet, please watch their story and consider chipping in. They’re one of the most fun families I’ve ever met, and I just love them.