Last night, Sam and I watched the movie The Thin Red Line which was pretty good but really slow. We became curious about the actor who played the part of Private Witt. He was amazingly compelling, and once he got killed the movie wasn't as interesting. Apparently his name is Jim Caviezel (pronounced like weasel) and he's a devout Catholic. He also has some huge fans.

At about midnight, I was pretty much asleep when I was kind of casually woken up by a mildly chaotic hubbub outside. I am very used to all manner of brouhahas on my street due to its proximity to Haight Street and 'the projects' down the road. However, this commotion just got louder and louder and fire trucks and police sirens were blaring. Yes, I eventually had to admit that I was smelling smoke and burning electrical wiring. Then the sirens were flashing right outside out of the front door. I dashed to the window and looked. Smoke was everywhere. Groups of people in bathrobes and fuzzy slippers were hurrying down the street in a haze. Literally.

For one minute I feared for our house, but could tell the situation was farther down the street. For just one second, I hoped that the no-good drug-addicts that live next door had torched their own home, just so I wouldn't have to smell their Nag Champa and stale pot smoke ever again. But then I suppressed that notion.

Outside, the smoke was thick and acrid. It burned my throat. It was nothing like the smell of a nice wood-burning fireplace. Fire hoses were stretched up and down the block, intermittentally swollen and then flaccid. The fire was about 6 houses down on the other side of the street. All of our neighbors (who are usually in pleasant but hurried-urban mode) huddled together behind the line of fire trucks just staring up at the burning building. The house in question is a pink shabby Victorian. I think there are two apartments in there. It's kind of a San Francisco hipster-scene kind of house. All the casually sharp-dressed kids that work at Bean There live there. Some of them are in bad local electropop bands. Most of the girls have dyed red, blue, and/or black hair and are hot in a Suicide Girls kind of way, but older -- late 20s. I've never had a problem with any of them. In fact when Sam and I splurged and bought our enormous and amazing super deluxe bed, we gave our (not that) old mattress to one of them.

Right next door to that house, is the loud and proud bright-yellow house of two Bears. Over the years the guys have customized the house to their perfect specifications and you can tell they have planned it down to the last rainbow stained glass window and matching Harley-Davidsons. They were out there scurrying around in a perfect tizzy. I could tell they were totally pissed. I had never thought about how much they must hate having those sloppy kids living right next door to their carefully composed den. The firepeople (I saw at least two women) were hacking through their customized basement entrance.

Meanwhile next door, smoke was pouring out of the second-story windows. It was totally dark in there, except for the moving flashlights of the firefighters walking through the rooms. The street was running with water. People were sort of standing in silence, but greeting each other with friendly smiles. I usually hate accident scene gawking, but this didn't really feel like that. The firefighters were professional and polite (totally different than cops) and there wasn't that gross blood-lust vibe brewing in the crowd. Still, it was clear everyone was thinking the same thing -- I'm so glad its not my house...

Sam pointed out that lots of people were smoking.

I watched for a while, but it was clear that the fire was under control. Sam had been behind me when we first walked up but I looked around and couldn't find her. It was so smoky and surreal that I felt a twinge of panic, but then I figured she went back to the house. I saw a few people standing in a circle around a sobbing girl. She kept saying, My house just burned down, my house just burned down. She didn't seem to know how to act. I noticed that she had very cute little kitty-heeled shoes on. I saw Cliff (our self-appointed block custodian) taking it all in, and figured that he'd have the scoop for us in the morning. He always does.

I got back home but Sam wasn't there. Isaac, however, was still snoring away in his crate, completely oblivious. Sam got back a little while later. I was having these irrational attachments to the open windows, (something about life-giving, free-flowing oxygen), until Sam clued in that the house was full of smoke. I was also having a mild asthma reaction. She shut them.

We didn't talk much, just got back in bed and tried to fall asleep. It was still pretty loud outside. About 15 minutes later, we heard a woman on her cell phone, her voice stretchy with the Drama of it all -- I just went down to Safeway for 20 minutes to get some cigarettes. For 20 minutes! And now I got back and my house is on fire. My house burned down... No, I was gone for 20 minutes -- for 20 minutes. They're saying the fire started in my room... And the rest of them are out of town... Yes, please do. Are you sure? Ok, I'm sitting here on the other side of the street... Thanks, see you soon.

Whoa.

In the morning, sure enough Cliff was out there getting his morning sweeping in. There were piles of charred planks all over the street. We hadn't thought about it the night before but Sam's truck was parked right in front of the house. The car was completley socked in with burned and blackened wood. Sam put on some gloves and started moving the piles around. Nameless melted and twisted personal belongings were strewn about in soggy puddles. Women's shoes, a futon frame and mattress, a lamp shade, a chair, a little knickknack shelf -- all charcoaly and peeling. Cliff came over to help us get the car out, but didn't have much news. Apparently, he said, the fire started from an over-loaded surge protector. He said he felt very bad for the owner of the house, but was glad that the kids were gone. I guess there were some drug problems at the house, too. Or who knows what. Sometimes we forget: Cliff's an owner and we're renters.

The house is gutted and empty tonight. Singed envelopes are still fluttering around. I wonder where the kids are. I'm sure they didn't have renter's insurance. I hope they're gonna be ok.