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In the tradition of the Dilbert Newsletter, here is my special holiday story -- the only non-cynical thing I write all year.
Recent True Story:
Midnight, Danville California, heart pounding, sound of sneakers on pavement, sockless, sweating, adrenaline pumping. Two minutes ago I was climbing into bed. Now I'm running down a pitch-black street, full speed, fearing the worst.
Neighbor's sidewalk, dark, don't trip. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. Doorbell too. DING-DONG-DING. C'mon, c'mon, wake up! There he is. Open the door. I blurt:
"THE HILL BEHIND YOUR HOUSE IS ON FIRE. I ALREADY CALLED 911!"
Two houses alerted. The next one is the hardest. It's around the corner, nearest the blaze. Full sprint. Hope the fire hasn't reached them yet. No sirens. How long has it been since I called 911? Damn moonless night. I can't see anything but the fire, now only a patch of dry grass from the house. No lights. The occupants are oblivious, probably in bed. Front walkway is an obstacle course. Jump, guess, steps maybe. Got lucky, no sprains.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
"THE HILL BEHIND YOUR HOUSE IS ON FIRE. I ALREADY CALLED 911!"
He's fast with the garden hose. Does that ever work? One more house, then I'll load the car for evacuation. Legs pump harder, pick it up a notch, sprint now, rest later, make a mental list of what to take, what to leave. Cats first, then unfinished Dilbert strips and art supplies. Computers. Photos. How much can the car hold?
The firemen have my address. Have to meet them out front. Gotta hurry, but save some energy for the evacuation. Nah, forget saving energy. Full throttle. Adrenalin will compensate. Siren approaching. They're fast, maybe 5 minutes since I called. I wave my arms and point to the side street. The fire truck slows a beat, reads me and accelerates toward the fire.
One truck. ONE TRUCK???? The whole hill is on fire. I should have sounded more worried on the phone. It's my fault if the neighborhood burns up. Okay, the arsonist's too.
I fly up my stairs, three at a time. Quickly, survey belongings. Might not see any of this again. Pam already put two angry cats in the car; her arms are bleeding. I throw possessions in empty bins. Look out the window. I could hit the flames with a golf ball. Nothing but dry underbrush separates us. Stay calm. There's still some room in the car. Think, think. What will I miss most? What am I forgetting?
The car is only half full. It's surprising how little I "need" when it comes down to it. I sprint toward the fire to see who's winning. A second fire truck passes me. Now it's a fair fight.
The neighbors gather on the street, a ragtag theater of bed- hair, pajamas, and gym clothes, chatting, comparing stories. We watch, impressed, as the two fire crews beat down the fire one square foot at a time. They don't even seem worried. A dozen dark shapes on the hill make quick work of the perimeter and methodically mop up the smaller pockets. My pulse slowly returns to normal. I unload the car and apologize to the cats.
I often think about that fire, and about the many ghosts that visited the neighborhood that summer night. I'm sure I felt the ghosts of engineers who created a technical miracle called the phone network, that later spawned the 911 system, so I could report the fire within 15 seconds of seeing it. And I know I saw the ghosts of engineers who designed the fire equipment that allowed two small teams of firefighters to conquer a burning hill. And there were the ghosts of all the firefighters who have lived before, having bequeathed their skills and traditions to each new generation. Most notably, that night I was also visited by the ghosts of September 11th, my old friends. Almost every day they visit to remind me to be more alert, to investigate strange smells, strange sounds, as I did that night, until finding one window view that revealed the flames.
Philosophers have many views of the human soul. In the end, it's undefined, unfathomable. The only thing I know for sure is that no one really leaves.
Appreciate your ghosts, especially the ones you can still hug. Have a great holiday.
Scott Adams
Recent True Story:
Midnight, Danville California, heart pounding, sound of sneakers on pavement, sockless, sweating, adrenaline pumping. Two minutes ago I was climbing into bed. Now I'm running down a pitch-black street, full speed, fearing the worst.
Neighbor's sidewalk, dark, don't trip. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. Doorbell too. DING-DONG-DING. C'mon, c'mon, wake up! There he is. Open the door. I blurt:
"THE HILL BEHIND YOUR HOUSE IS ON FIRE. I ALREADY CALLED 911!"
Two houses alerted. The next one is the hardest. It's around the corner, nearest the blaze. Full sprint. Hope the fire hasn't reached them yet. No sirens. How long has it been since I called 911? Damn moonless night. I can't see anything but the fire, now only a patch of dry grass from the house. No lights. The occupants are oblivious, probably in bed. Front walkway is an obstacle course. Jump, guess, steps maybe. Got lucky, no sprains.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
"THE HILL BEHIND YOUR HOUSE IS ON FIRE. I ALREADY CALLED 911!"
He's fast with the garden hose. Does that ever work? One more house, then I'll load the car for evacuation. Legs pump harder, pick it up a notch, sprint now, rest later, make a mental list of what to take, what to leave. Cats first, then unfinished Dilbert strips and art supplies. Computers. Photos. How much can the car hold?
The firemen have my address. Have to meet them out front. Gotta hurry, but save some energy for the evacuation. Nah, forget saving energy. Full throttle. Adrenalin will compensate. Siren approaching. They're fast, maybe 5 minutes since I called. I wave my arms and point to the side street. The fire truck slows a beat, reads me and accelerates toward the fire.
One truck. ONE TRUCK???? The whole hill is on fire. I should have sounded more worried on the phone. It's my fault if the neighborhood burns up. Okay, the arsonist's too.
I fly up my stairs, three at a time. Quickly, survey belongings. Might not see any of this again. Pam already put two angry cats in the car; her arms are bleeding. I throw possessions in empty bins. Look out the window. I could hit the flames with a golf ball. Nothing but dry underbrush separates us. Stay calm. There's still some room in the car. Think, think. What will I miss most? What am I forgetting?
The car is only half full. It's surprising how little I "need" when it comes down to it. I sprint toward the fire to see who's winning. A second fire truck passes me. Now it's a fair fight.
The neighbors gather on the street, a ragtag theater of bed- hair, pajamas, and gym clothes, chatting, comparing stories. We watch, impressed, as the two fire crews beat down the fire one square foot at a time. They don't even seem worried. A dozen dark shapes on the hill make quick work of the perimeter and methodically mop up the smaller pockets. My pulse slowly returns to normal. I unload the car and apologize to the cats.
I often think about that fire, and about the many ghosts that visited the neighborhood that summer night. I'm sure I felt the ghosts of engineers who created a technical miracle called the phone network, that later spawned the 911 system, so I could report the fire within 15 seconds of seeing it. And I know I saw the ghosts of engineers who designed the fire equipment that allowed two small teams of firefighters to conquer a burning hill. And there were the ghosts of all the firefighters who have lived before, having bequeathed their skills and traditions to each new generation. Most notably, that night I was also visited by the ghosts of September 11th, my old friends. Almost every day they visit to remind me to be more alert, to investigate strange smells, strange sounds, as I did that night, until finding one window view that revealed the flames.
Philosophers have many views of the human soul. In the end, it's undefined, unfathomable. The only thing I know for sure is that no one really leaves.
Appreciate your ghosts, especially the ones you can still hug. Have a great holiday.
Scott Adams
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