Inferno
by Donna Gum
As a college
student alone at night, I experimented with
boiling battered cheese balls. After pouring five
inches of oil into a saucepan, I turned the
stovetop on and sat down to wait for the oil to
bubble. Adding the cheese balls was the next step.
What could go wrong?
After waiting
several minutes, I checked the oil to see if it
was boiling. After deciding to drop in a cheese
ball, though the oil hadn’t boiled, I
started toward the saucepan when fire shot
straight up from the pot.
A dish towel
wouldn’t put out those flames. Water, nope.
It won’t mix with oil. Flames leaped a foot
high. I didn’t dare move the kettle. With no
fire extinguisher or baking soda, it became a
dire situation because I rented the home instead
of owning it.
Popcorn, my
cat, strolled into the kitchen. I lost it. I
clapped my hands to my face, started jumping, and
screamed “Popcorn, the house is on fire!!
The house is on fire!!”
Her head
bobbed in time with my jumps as she watched me
with her green eyes and offered no help.
Though there
was no phone at the house, I lived next door to a
closed gas station with a pay phone. I didn’t
want to call the fire department but saw no
choice. There won’t be a quarter.
Running to my purse, I felt shocked that a
quarter lay on top. Snatching it with relief, I
ran out the door with a backward glance. Yep, the
fire was still burning on that five inches of oil.
Shooting off
the porch into the rain to the pay phone, my
loose socks slapped the water in the potholes.
The flames left me no time for shoes. My voice
sounded desperate as I described the lone house
on the four-lane and stood outside waiting for
help. I checked the flames. They’re still
burning high.
The wailing
fire truck arrived, and I led the fireman to the
kitchen fire. He doused it with an extinguisher
just as the home’s owner, Jim, arrived.
He said,
“They told me my gas station was on fire.”
I reassured him it was a stovetop fire.
We walked out
to the porch. A bright light pierced the darkness
and hit the porch. I hid behind a post. The local
TV crew was here! That was when I saw the fire
trucks lining the highway. Each with its red
lights flashing against the night sky. Some were
from counties away. I counted twelve and cringed.
Jim said,
“the scanner said fire erupted at the gas
station.”
“No, a
simple kitchen fire.”
A friend
stopped at the house as the fire trucks pulled
away. She told me a tidbit: Oil doesn’t boil
like water.
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