Thursday, February 10, 2000

THE FIREHOUSE (February 2000)


(The following story is fiction based on truth. The objective was to include in the telling, those words which are underlined.)
It was an early 1900's three-story building that was built to be a firehouse. The first floor had since been converted to offices; the second, a warehouse; and the third, which had been the attic, had been remodeled into a house. There were even shingles on the exterior of the wall that divided the living area from the rest of the attic space.


Two friends and I rented the apartment which included bedrooms for each of us, a living room and dining room, a huge kitchen (although we rarely used it) and a laundry room nearly as large.


I think there were stairs. Yes, there were stairs, but I don't recall much about them. There was a warehouse on the second floor, so the building had a freight elevator, and this is what we used to get to the apartment.

It was an ideal place for parties. There were no neighbors who would be irritated by loud music. The living area doubled in size when we included the "yard," an area outside the apartment that our landlord had left unfinished. Here we had a patio table, chairs and, for no logical reason, a sun umbrella. As in many ancient structures, the floors creaked and the apartment had an old wood smell. And being attic space, it was morosely dark.


Our landlord was a salesman whose office was on the first floor. His goods were stored in the second-floor warehouse. He sold caskets. The building was the perfect location for a Halloween get-together.

We invited a lot of people to our party. Friends knew that just the three of us were in the building at night and that we rode a freight elevator equipped with a single low-watt bulb to get to our apartment. They also knew about the warehouse. That's why a lot of them came to the party. They hoped to visit the second floor.


We obliged.

Most of the caskets were stacked in their shipping crates. But some were unboxed and sat on display platforms. As guests arrived that night, either Janie or I would lead a group from the third floor down the poorly lighted stairs to the warehouse. We encouraged them to walk quietly, and they did, whispering and on tiptoe. They were easy to guide, mostly because of what they were about to see, but also because we weren't supposed to be there.

Usually someone in each group asked to see the inside of a casket. If no one did, either Janie or I would suggest raising a lid. And as we slowly lifted the top, inside ... inside was Karen who "rose from the dead" and screamed! As did the visitors.

It was a memorable evening. I recall that we took at least four groups down. Each time Karen performed superbly. Unfortunately, on the last tour, the casket tipped over when Karen sat up. Somehow, when it fell, her neck was broken and she died.

Yesterday the rich warmth of the cherrywood casket stood in stark contrast to the broken plaster and stiff wooden pews of the small country church. It was less than a week ago that the casket laid empty in the warehouse. Now it was Karen's.