Some nights don’t work out as well as others.
I went to New York City last night with my friends, Jeni and Sharon, to attend (and hopefully perform in) a Moth StorySLAM.
When we arrived at The Bell House at 7:30 PM, I discovered that we were in the wrong location. The StorySLAM was actually taking place more than 30 minutes away in Manhattan.
We had actually driven past the show and into Brooklyn unnecessarily.
The problem?
The StorySLAM was listed as The Bell House on my Google calendar, but my tickets listed a different location. Dimitri Martin was performing at The Bell House last night, which would have been a great show to attend, but sadly, we didn’t have tickets for that show either.
By the time we arrived at the correct location, the StorySLAM would’ve been at least halfway finished.
Dejected, disappointed, and depressed, we decided to get ice cream before heading home.
The first ice cream shop we drove to was out of business (even though the internet indicated it was open and had 4.3 stars), so we found an ice cream shop in Little Jamaica in the center of Brooklyn with a sign that reads:
“The Best Homemade Ice Cream in the World.”
Jeni would later say, “That sign was a lie.”
It’s hard to ruin ice cream, yet all three of us threw our ice cream away, marking the first time in any of our lives that we tossed full bowls of ice cream into a trash bin.
It wasn’t really ice cream by the typical ice cream standards. It was like someone had taken Italian ice, added cream, and stirred.
Jeni said it was like the homemade ice cream she made as a kid, where you mixed ice, water, milk, and flavoring into something that looked like ice cream but was inedible.
Just like ours.
One of the flavors we passed on was charcoal. That should’ve been enough to chase us away, but sadly, it was not.
But the tragedy of the ice cream was soon forgotten because as we left the shop, we discovered that the four-story building a block up and across the street was on fire, and about seven fire engines had already arrived. Hoses were being affixed to hydrants. Firefighters with oxygen tanks and axes were heading inside. Smoke and flames filled the air.
My minivan was parked adjacent to the burning building, of course., In fact, a fire engine had parked alongside my car and had elevated its ladder above my car’s roof and onto the building’s roof.
There was so much smoke surrounding my car that Sharon thought my car was on fire for a moment.
Ultimately, every street surrounding us and the building was blocked by fire engines, ambulances, and police cars. Residents were evacuated from the building. Some were removed by stretcher and moved to a triage location just past my car at the other end of the block.
By the time everyone had arrived on the scene, there were about twenty emergency vehicles of every kind and dozens of first responders.
I asked one police officer if it might be possible for me to move my car. It was impossible because the ladder truck adjacent to my car had deployed enormous stabilizing feet so close to my car that firefighters had placed bumpers against my driver’s door in case the engine shifted and hit my car. But the police officer laughed and said, “Honey, even if you could move your car, every street around us is completely blocked. You’re going to be here a while.”
It was true. We had time to take photos and video, tell one another stories on the corner, visit Walgreens for drinks, chat with police officers and residents, and search for a restroom in a Burger King and Pizza Hut before Jeni met an employee at a Blazin’ Wings restaurant down the street who allowed us to use their restroom.
No toilet paper, of course.
About an hour later, Sharon finally sweet-talked a police officer to let us leave after the stabilizers and ladder had been retracted, and one of the streets was now open.
However, backing up the car so that I wouldn’t hit the car behind me or clip the fire engine beside me was difficult, given the numerous flashing lights in my mirrors and the camera. As I shifted into reverse and began the maneuver, the police officer told me to stop and asked if I had been drinking.
“No,” I said and laughed, knowing I haven’t consumed alcohol in about 30 years except for the occasional wedding or New Year’s toast.
“Okay,” he said, Then you’re just really bad at this.”
I didn’t appreciate the comment. It was the first time I had attempted to exit a parking spot blocked by a car, a fire engine, and a building that had been burning 30 minutes ago, all while surrounded by flashing lights, wandering pedestrians, and smoke lingering in the air.
But eventually, we escaped, and I managed to climb into bed around 1:00 AM.
Sadly, I was awake at 3:30 AM. The cats have been fighting because of an oddity in which cats sometimes perceive a threat — in this case, another cat outside — and for some reason, misdirect their anger at each other. So Tobi was locked in our bedroom while Pluto was downstairs, causing Tobi to meow, hiss, and climb all over me starting around 3:00 AM.
I was also coughing for much of the night, and it didn’t occur until now that my sore throat and persistent cough are the result of the smoke I inhaled during the fire. My throat feels almost seared, and the urge to cough is almost constant, thus ensuring that the frustrations of the night will persist for at least one more day.
I made the point last night that “Tragedy plus time equals comedy.”
It’s true. But when you’ve only managed to sleep about two hours and can’t stop coughing because of smoke inhalation, there hasn’t been enough time to turn this tragedy into humor.
You might disagree.
