We all left the police station and waited 30 seconds for the fire station to ready their fire hoses to put out the fire. Not surprisingly, the fire station was next door to the police station. On the far side of the station was where the fire was taking place. Curiosity led the group to get a better look at the fire. Before long, cars driving along Main Street stopped to take a look at the debacle. People in the near area came out and started to watch the small fire fighting force do the best they could. There was so much heat, that the roof of the very room Hollard was previously in collapsed. Drunkards that spent daytime in the taverns came out and looked at the conflagration, which started to gape open and eat the fire truck as well as a few houses that were in the back of the fire and police station. To those who had just drunk a million concoctions that make poison taste like water, the fire was not a fire, but another sun right in front of their blurred eyes. Luckily for us, Cloberton’s entire fire team showed up to help. Cloberton was the closest town other than a place called Wood Village that was home to a solid 300 people and the only thing they had was a “town center building of authority”, which was kind of like a compact version of a police station, a fire station, and town hall all in one. Cloberton, home to 1,600 people, was still unbelievably small. This was exactly why Cloberton’s entire firefighting force’s arrival wasn’t that much of a relief. They had one truck which was probably as old me, but the hose was ahead of its time. It seemed as if craftsmanship and hard work was put into making it. At least one thousand spectators watched in awe as the fire slowly dwindled thanks to the fire hose from Cloberton. That hose was made with passionate intentions; that hose was made with the intention to make a difference and possibly save someone’s life. I contemplated on that too. Sometimes people just looked for what’s in a deal for themselves while some are kind enough as to put themselves on the line for another. The only time I ever felt happy for the drunkards’ outward personas was when one started to cheer. We all knew at that point that the fire’s destiny was to be subdued.
“Yeah! Come on! Let’s go! Woohoo!” the old man yelled. His long and coarse beard made his voice hearty and influential. Soon another person started to cheer. Like spectators watching a fight between a gladiator and a lion, we cheered as the firemen fought against the receding fire. All of us let out our most powerful yell to show how awesome the show was. The fire was unbelievably life-like. It seemed like when Pine Grove, who had no control over the situation, tried to tame the fire, the fire showed them who was in charge. When the Cloberton police force showed up, the fire knew who was master. As fast as it grew, it shrunk. Minimal was the damage. The only thing that was burnt was the roof over the back room. The fire towered over the town, but failed to do anything with its size.
Everyone went to the firemen and hugged them and few of the ladies were impressed too. Later that day, every one of the firemen helped clean up the fallen roof. The local carpenters went right to work. I went up to fire Chief Johnson and asked him how the fire started.
He looked at me and said, “Well, I’ll tell you what, that fire started from a lighter, a wall of papers within a wooden cabinet, and a conveniently placed package of rubbing alcohol that led right to the wooden roof of the back room.”
“Oh, I see.”
I walked home as the sun started to set and I thought to myself. Even though that was a nice memory, it wasn’t enough to stop me from leaving Pine Grove for good.