Our Building Caught Fire, And I’m Grateful
It could always be worse.
This is a personal account of what happened when a dryer in the laundry room on our floor caught fire in the early morning hours of December 29th, 2020.
I don’t remember what time I fell asleep the night before last, but I didn’t have too much trouble with it as I have in the past couple of weeks. I was in a deep sleep when I thought I heard someone frantically ringing my doorbell. They rang it in a short series, paused a moment, and then resumed. I thought I might have been dreaming. I looked at the clock; it was a little after 12:30 AM, and I wondered who would be at my door at this hour. Was it a prank? Was someone playing a cruel joke on me?
I lay there motionless for a few moments, intently listening to see if I heard anyone outside the door. I thought I had heard a voice and then the sound of someone walking through the fire doors (they make a thumping noise when closing).
Then a few short moments later, I heard sirens. They got closer, louder. Then the sound of a large vehicle outside rumbled and echoed, and I saw flashing lights of blue and red flickering against my frosted window pane. I got up and pulled the curtains away, peering out the window like a voyeur, and there were a couple of firetrucks outside, flashing like beacons.
It was then that I heard the fire alarm in the hallway. I opened my bedroom door and then went to my front door and opened that. I saw smoke and whiffed the acridness of something electrical mixed with a caustic aroma of burning plastic. There was a fire in the building. I quickly shut the door.
I hastily got dressed, knowing that I would have to evacuate. I’ve practiced this in my mind before, what I would do in the event of a fire.
The smoke now started to penetrate into our apartment, like some ethereal invading force creeping in slowly, stealthily. I couldn’t see it entering, yet it was there. I became panicked. I packed up my laptop and grabbed my mask, and opened the door to exit. The smoke was now as thick as heavy fog. It gained more substance from the moment before when I first opened the door to the present. As I stepped out into the hallway, it burned my eyes and my throat.
I let the door slam behind me and at that moment realized that I had forgotten my pocketbook! The door was locked. It was too late.
I made my way down the hallway and just made it to the emergency stairway before I remembered my 81-year old neighbor next door. I turned around and ran back. Her apartment was behind the fire doors, and I could see through small glass square windows that the smoke was even heavier on that side. My heart sank into my stomach, but I opened the doors anyway. The smoke hit me in the face like a furious slap. I gasped and hacked, squinting my eyes as if the slits would protect the sensitive orbs behind my lids. As soon as the doors were open and I gathered my startled senses, I saw that there were a few firemen there. I couldn’t see them before, the doors blocked much of the view, and the smoke was terribly dense.
The firemen saw me and told me to turn around and go down the other stairs. I exclaimed that someone was in that apartment right there. At least, I think I did. Did the words come out of my mouth? As I try to remember the actual events and their order of occurrence, they all blur together and seem as muddled as the smoke that filled the building. Yet, they are individually etched into my mind, indelibly, almost branded. One thing I do know for sure, I knew I had to go back for Barbara.
I lost my stepmother earlier this year, at the height of the pandemic in New York. Her name was Barbara too. The thought had run through my mind that I couldn’t endure the loss of another Barbara. However, it wasn’t just that. I’m very fond of my neighbor. She reminds me of my grandmother, who was also very dear to me. I would not leave her to be lost forever, too, if I could do something about it.
However, upon sight of these men, clad in gear that made them look like alien beings, I no longer felt dread. I knew the firemen would take care of Barbara and make sure she got out of the building safely. I trusted them wholeheartedly.
My self-preservation instinct then kicked in, and I bolted around in the other direction and ran down the hallway to the stairwell. My eyes stung, and I coughed. Even though I had my face covered with a mask, it did nothing to hold back the corrosive fumes that inflamed my throat and choked my lungs.
I threw the stairwell door open and flashed down the first few steps before I came upon a group of people gathered on the first landing. I didn’t stop. I didn’t speak. I just darted past them and continued down the remaining stairs to the first floor.
As I exited our apartment building through the front doors, I saw a gathering of other residents gathered on the sidewalk by the driveway through my watering eyes. I glanced from person to person, faces obscured by masks, seeing if I could recognize the eyes of someone I knew.
Everyone looked familiar, but I didn’t know anyone, not on a personal level. I searched for Barbara, hoping that she may have already gotten out. I couldn’t find her. My head pivoted on my shoulders back and forth, seeking, hoping. According to the recent calls on my phone, I had called her. She didn’t answer. I vaguely remember doing that.
I also called my husband. I distinctly remember that without having to look at my call logs. Joe was away in Ohio for business. I knew he’d be sleeping; however, this was an emergency, so I called anyway. I told him what was happening; yet, I didn’t know what was happening other than a fire burning in the building. I also told him that I forgot my pocketbook in the apartment. I was distressed. I had no ID, no credit cards, no money, no keys. I felt vulnerable, almost naked. What was I going to do? Where was I going to go? How would I be able to do anything without my credit cards? I don’t know what I expected my husband to do; he was over 8-hours away.
Then I looked up.
I found Barbara. She was there, standing on the balcony of her 3rd-floor apartment. I yelled up to her, and I recall something ridiculous that left my lips, “I left my pocketbook and keys in my apartment!” I think back and wonder, ‘Why in the world did I say that?’ She replied, “They know I’m here [the firemen]!” Recollecting these statements made by each of us, there must have been something said in between; however, I have no idea what those words were.
What seemed instantaneously, Barbara appeared among us, standing in the driveway. I wanted to hug her, but Covid got in the way. I didn’t leave her side for the rest of the evening.
I guess I had hung up the phone with my husband when I saw Barbara on the balcony. According to my call log, I called Joe again at some point. We spoke for another minute. I suspect I called him to tell him that Barbara was safe, I don’t remember.
We were ushered across the street so the firemen could carry gear unhindered into the building. We stood on the sidewalk, bunched in groups together, talking about what was happening.
At some point, I learned that the fire started in the 3rd-floor laundry room. The dryer had caught fire.
We could see into the windows of the 3rd-floor lobby, where the laundry room is, just to the right of the elevator doors. We saw the silhouettes of firefighters, and we could see a black cloud looming over their heads.
All of us watched, and we shared stories of how we came to be standing outside on a cold night, most in pajamas.
I wasn’t the only one who left their pocketbook and keys inside their apartments. My neighbor, Barbara, had also left her belongings inside. She said the firemen whisked her out so quickly that she didn’t have time to grab anything.
Some residents had their cats with them, while others weren’t able to retrieve their frightened animals. The fire alarms were blaring inside the building, signaling imminent danger, further scaring the beloved animals, out of reach of their guardians. Smoke infiltrated our homes’ barriers, insufficient to block what loomed beyond, which must have added to the critters’ terror as it did with me.
My neighbor across the hallway said that Lucy, her cat, was still inside. Lori was upset, almost in tears. We all tried to comfort her and tell her that cats are smart and she’ll know to hide. The firemen were working speedily, and they would contain the fire before it reached their apartment. We didn’t know that would be true until later, but we tried to comfort her nonetheless.
I thought about the ferrets we used to have. I always played these moments in my head and what I would do if there was an emergency and needed to evacuate. Those imagined recreations did little good as I ended up leaving a critical item inside. However, I do know that I would have packed up my little fuzzies. As I watched others with their scared kitties in carriers, I was grateful that my babies were no longer with us. They would have frozen to death out there with us. I could have tucked them into my jacket, but I had three ferrets, and anyone who knows ferrets knows that they do not stay still; they are very wiggly. Three are sometimes more than one can handle.
It’s strange, the things that pass through your mind when you’re in an emergency situation. Logical thinking evades you, and it seems that your brain turns to useless mush. I don’t know how emergency responders do it. How do they keep their wits about them and make rational critical life and death decisions? I suppose it’s like anything else in life; you train, learn and gain experience. However, this is not an experience I wish to repeat, ever.
There we all stood outside, staring at the building, wondering if we’d be able to return to our homes.
We watched as one woman, who none of us knew, was wheeled away on a stretcher, wondering if she suffered from smoke inhalation. She was awake and seemed aware. Hopefully, she’ll be okay.
Ellie’s son, the lady who lives across from Barbara, had been taken by stretcher too. We learned that he had somehow sprained his ankle at some point during the commotion.
We remained outside for a little over an hour before we were given the okay to go back inside. We were all so relieved, and I was surprised by how quick the firemen contained the fire.
Barbara went up in the elevator with others while I took the stairs. Through all of this, we still are dealing with Covid. I didn’t want to pack myself in our tiny elevator with a bunch of people.
As I made my way up the central stairway, the one that I couldn’t use before while the fire was active, water trickled down each step, like a dying waterfall. I was careful so that I wouldn’t slip, although I had my hiking boots on, so I felt secure with each step. Fireman after fireman passed me going down and advised me to take care while walking up; the steps were slippery. I thanked each of them for their service, and they nodded in acknowledgment; some of them said, “You’re welcome,” in the most reassuring voices.
I was indeed grateful that we still had a home to return to. Although, I had no idea what awaited me on the 3rd-floor.
When I reached our lobby, a few others were already there. A fire lieutenant remained to explain what had happened. He described in detail how the heat crawled across the ceiling, made its way to the other side of the lobby, melting blinds that hung in front of the window. We could see the scorch marks and the twisted remains of the blinds, dangling like limp spaghetti.
The lieutenant opened the door to the laundry room, and past the pond that now covered the floor, we could see the carcass of the machine we all used to dry our freshly laundered garments. It was charred but not unrecognizable. It was surprisingly intact; however, the clothing that was contained within was now scattered about. They lie on the floor in black, mushy lumps, completely indistinguishable, except for one piece that looked like it might have been a sock at one time.
Now the question remained…how do Barbara and I get back into our apartments? We had seen the superintendent at one point during the excitement outside; however, we hadn’t been able to locate him since then.
Luckily, our neighbor Kathy had keys to Barbara’s apartment. She went down the hall to retrieve them. When Kathy returned with the keys, Barbara entered her apartment and grabbed my keys. She often will keep an eye on our apartment when we’re away. I gave her a set of our keys a long time ago so she could drop the mail and make sure the one plant I own wouldn’t wither and die.
That’s the one advantage of apartment living, you get to know the people around you, and there’s always someone willing to help out when the need arises. Of course, the disadvantage is if someone’s place goes up in flames, so does everyone else’s.
I entered my home searching for any signs of damage. The only remnant of the near-catastrophe was a haze that hung in the air. I turned my air purifier on to clear the place out. I had the sense to turn the device off before I abandoned the apartment, but not to grab my purse before stepping out the door. I remember thinking that I didn’t want the device to become clogged, so I disabled it. Amazing.
I then washed my hands and face and changed my clothes. My heart raced even though the drama was over. How was I going to get to sleep now? It was 2:07 AM when I called my husband again to let him know he’d have a home to return to. He wasn’t getting a good night’s sleep tonight either.
I opened Facebook on my phone and saw that a few people had posted about the incident. I added my comments and proceeded to create my own post about the event with pictures. I then lay down to try to go back to sleep.
Remarkably, I was able to fall asleep without too much difficulty.
I woke up around 8:00 AM, and that’s when the realization of it all hit me. It came over me with a wave of emotion so heavy that I started to shake and cry.
I became aware of how fortunate we all were and that nobody was seriously injured (as far as I knew, although we learned later that Ellie’s son’s foot was broken, not sprained).
I was grateful that I had a home to wake up in and that we wouldn’t have to go somewhere else to live. I thought about everyone out west who lost their homes to the wildfires earlier this year and how devastated they must have felt. My heart ached.
I also felt terrible anxiety. I didn’t feel this while everything was happening; it seemed to lie dormant until morning. It was as if a snooze button was hit the moment I exited the building and didn’t go off again until after I had already woken up.
I called my neighbor Barbara to see how she was doing. She was feeling okay, and since I have basically been quarantined for the past two weeks and not gone anywhere, we thought it safe for me to pay her a visit. I had something that I needed to return to her anyway, and I was curious to assess the damage.
Although, I am a bit concerned that we may have both been exposed to Covid. There were so many firemen in this building, coming and going, and none wore masks. After all, they had more immediate things to worry about; I wouldn’t expect them to be wearing masks. And, it would be an impossibility because they would have melted onto their faces. Many of us forgot about the 6-ft social distancing rule as we stood together huddled outside (although most wore masks). The last thing any of us were worrying about at the time was Covid. But now, in the aftermath, I think about it.
As I made my way next door, I walked through those same fire doors that last night, served a useful purpose, and this time opened them without fear. I could smell the pungent stench of the now dissipated smoke. The foulness lingered. It clung to the walls, embedded itself into the carpet, a ghost of the horror that could have been.
Barbara let me into her apartment. I commented on her door; the metal bent and twisted as if it were flimsy aluminum foil. I remarked about the black whisps that looked as if they were streaked on the doorway with a paintbrush, reaching into the sacred safe space of her home. I could still smell the smoke inside too.
Barbara has a way of making me feel calmer; she’s so easy-going and looks at life with a carefree attitude. She recalled those moments after I had left her in her apartment and before we were reunited outside. A fireman grabbed her by the elbow and sped her down the hallway to the emergency stairs. She said that he was moving so fast, basically running, and she had marveled how she could keep up with him.
It was the case with her as was with me, though; parts of her memory were blurry as if they too were obscured by smoke. Barbara said she didn’t even remember going down the stairs. One minute she was in the hallway, the next outside.
After the seriousness of our discussion about how bad it could have been was complete, we laughed and spoke lightheartedly about it all.
Barbara graciously offered the use of her shower to me as mine has had an issue, and I have not been able to use it since Christmas Eve. We won’t be able to use it until it’s temporarily patched or gut the bathroom to redo it. With all the damage caused by the fire, I don’t see work being done on our bathroom anytime soon. Our problem falls low on the priority list since half of the building residents are now without the use of a washer and dryer (the destruction of our laundry room affected the floors above). The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few? Perhaps. Maybe not. But we’re used to roughing it in the backcountry for weeks on end, so we’ll make do.
I showered in Barbara’s bathroom. I felt like a new person when I was finished. It was almost as if I had washed away all of my anxiety down the drain.
After that, we had lunch, and I remained at my neighbor’s place for the rest of the day.
People were coming and going; the superintendent paid a visit, the maintenance guy paid a visit, and insurance folks wandered around assessing the damage. This slightly worried me because I thought about how it will be a miracle if we don’t end up infected with Covid. Yes, I’m an alarmist (read ‘Maybe I’m a COVID-19 Alarmist. I’m Okay With That.’). However, nothing can be done about it other than heed the experts’ precautions so I don’t end up infecting anyone else.
With Covid still running rampant across the globe, our shower situation causing quite the inconvenience, and some residual effects of smoke inhalation, I remain mostly unbothered. I count my blessings and am indebted to those firefighters and their swift action that saved our homes. With all that’s happened to make 2020 one of the most awful years many of us has experienced, I’m sure each of us can find something that we can be grateful for. And I’m thankful to be alive and well and have a home to live in.
