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One summer day, after having spent the morning calibrating banjos in the lab, I stopped by the house for lunch. After lunch, I'd be on my way to work, moving dirt from one hole to another. Lunch was almost ready. Mrs. Phillips handed me a cup of coffee and I sat down in the rocking chair by the open window. A puff of black smoke blew in through the screen. "The neighbors are barbequeing," I told Mrs. Phillips. I guess in a way, I was right. "Wope", she replied. It was at that exact moment that things got very strange very quickly. I heard a cry for help. It was a low, desparate cry like an injured animal. I jumped up out of my chair and ran to the window. There, not 10 feet away from me, was a naked woman leaning out the window with bright orange flames behind her and thick black smoke billowing out of the window around her. "What the heck was that?" asked the Missus. "Well, for one thing, the whorehouse is on fire." "What should I do?" "Grab the guitar and get out of the house," I replied as I bounded down the stairs. Outside, it was all kinds of chaotic. I remembered the "fire escape" nailed to the side of my house, and cut to the left through the crowd of singed working girls who had already escaped the blaze. Now I've heard stories, same as everybody else, of impossibly heroic acts performed under stress. Something about adrenelin and superhuman strength. All I know is that as I sprinted for the side of the house, great waves of fatigue rushed through me. I could hear the cries of the woman still trapped at the second floor window. I could hear the cries of her business associates: "Jump!" some yelled. "Don't Jump!" yelled others. I wrestled with that ladder for an eternity. There were four long rusty nails on each side, and the wooden extension ladder felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. When it finally broke loose from the wall and started to fall over on me, nails protruding at all angles, I had to jump out of the way or be crushed and impaled. I grabbed the enormous thing and started dragging it around the side of the house. When I got to the back yard, I realized that there was a six-foot high fence between our yard and theirs. The ladies from next door saw me with my ladder and came running, but they were on the other side of the fence. There was only one thing to do. I gathered my strength. I grabbed the ladder. I took a running start. I heaved that ladder as hard as I could, trying to make it clear the fence, just as the ladies next door jumped to try to catch an end. It lumbered through space ("lumbered", get it?) in slow motion against the summer sky. Time seemed to stop. And then several things happened at the same time. |