Blazing Fire

One second I was fighting a blazing fire. Hose in hand, hat on head, my best Dalmatian by my side. The next second, everything was dark. Am I engulfed in smoke? No, I can still breathe. Am I dead? No, I don’t see a tunnel of light or relatives beckoning. Oh, wait. There is a light. A red, blinking light. It’s trying to tell me something. I can barely make it out. “What it is little light?” Oh, it says “12:00”. I’m awake.

“It Was a Dark and Stormy Night”, as Snoopy used to say, and my brilliant deductive reasoning is saying now. The power must have been knocked out by lightning. Or by wind. Or by sunspots. Moon spots? It doesn’t take much to knock out the power around here. Fortunately, it’s usually only off for a few seconds, just long enough to reset all the clocks.

It’s tempting to go back to sleep but if I don’t set the alarm clock, I’ll never make it to work in the morning. I step out of bed with a splat. Splat? The mattress usually creaks when I get off of it but the splatting is new. I guess it’s time to get a new mattress.

It is with another splat! that I realize the sound is coming from outside the bedroom. I turn on the desk lamp clamped to my three-poster bed. (What happened to the other post is another story.) Suddenly the room is bathed in…darkness?

The power must still be out.

I realize that the blinking 12:00 on the alarm clock must be from the most poorly designed battery backup ever. I grab the clock off the dresser, yanking the cord from the wall. It’s still blinking its red twelve o’clock tattoo. Good. Now I have a flashlight.

I carefully walk over to the door, stepping over the piles of paper and around the useless dog. Opening the door, I hear another splat! It’s clearly coming from the kitchen. As I step out into the hallway, the flashing red light illuminates the portraits. I’m reminded of my favorite haunted house, the one that was lost when the pier collapsed.

It is with a heavy sigh that I tap the Minute button on the clock. The red light becomes a solid 12:01, the hallway looks more like a darkroom than a haunted house, and the portraits, well, the portraits look as scary as ever. I wish I knew who those people were.

Another splat! reminds me of my mission. Walking down the passage towards the kitchen, I step only at the edges of the floor, where the boards don’t creak. When I reach the end of the hallway, I peer around the corner, shining my flashclock into the abyss. As the light reaches the refrigerator, the mystery is solved. The freezer door is hanging open, great gobs of ice cream melting onto the floor. As I watch, another gob falls to the floor with a splat! I realize that the power outage must have melted the frost in the freezer until the gallons of ice cream tipped against the door and pushed it open.

Something still gnawed at the back of my head, though. Something didn’t feel quite right. I’m sure it’s just nerves. I smile at my own nervousness and step into the kitchen. It is only then that I realize my mistake. But I am too late. My presence in the kitchen has already alerted the intruders. An unearthly squeal draws my light over to the kitchen table but I only see falling chairs and rustling curtains as they scramble out the window.

I shine my red light into the freezer and confirm my suspicions. I shine the light back to the table and find what I’m looking for. Under the table, still rolling on its side, is the missing gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream. It had been licked clean. There’s nothing left to do but clean up the mess.

As I walk over to the pantry to get the mop and a proper flashlight, I shake my head and smile a little. I’ve invited them over countless times. I bought the mint chocolate chip ice cream just for them. But do they come by the front door? Of course not. It’s not their way. Their way is to gnaw through the electrical wires and raid the ‘fridge.

I turn on the lantern and set it on the table. In the light I can see what a mess they’ve made. I can also see the telltale claw marks in the melted ice cream. I could photograph the marks. I could turn them in. That would be just like me.

Correction, that would be just like the old me. I’m not that man anymore. I’ve changed. They may not be able to change their ways, but I can change mine. I wet the mop and get to work.