come on baby…

The fire made me nervous.
It was a small urbanized fire, in a stand, sitting on a drive way.
It looked sad, the way a parakeet looks in a double wide.
We made the best of it.  Store bought chocolate and gram crackers with black and white packaging. 
Marshmellows on sticks.  Not so much sticks, as long pieces of metal meant only for grilling over an open flame.
The five of us, laughing, drinking, telling stories about getting fired from crappy jobs.
And that’s when we heard the glass breaking, and the woman yell. 
There was way more smoke than our little pathetic three log fire could make.
And then we heard the sirens.
We would come to find out later that there had been an electrical fire in the basement.
The neighbors house had be rewired, and the insulation was made out of 1920’s news papers.
They had shown us some where you could still read the printing, the old ads for bowler hats and parasols.
Now it was the best prepared kindling you could imagine. 
It was less than the time it took to smoke a cigarette that the house next door was licking the clouds with giant tongues of flame.
The neighbors will never speak to us again.  Even after they get the house rebuilt.
Even after we offered to let them stay with us for the night.
Even after we tried to explain, over and over again
that we were roasting marshmellow at our house
and in our excitement
had all run over to see what was happening
standing there
watching their house burn to the ground
roasting sticks in hand
marshmellows stabbed at the end

my new favorite song = Stacie J
I could sit on the front porch for days and listen, diet p in one hand, parliment in the other.

I have more stories…bug me to tell them