had gas stations on them too. A weird coincidence, especially when you begin to calculate
the rate of fire spreading and every movie you’ve ever seen with an epic explosion at the
ol’ ‘fill-station. So needless to say, in my own, naïve, confused mind I was very afraid that
not only would this fire cause an explosion of schrapnel, but it could spread. To the gas.
Bad, right?
We heard a scream first. And then a cough. Vera was running towards us. Hair
smoking. Flailing arms. Wide-eyed and freaked. Her skin was red. Her hair wasn’t going
to last and her car would never be driven again. Her pink shirt with flowers and a pair
of khaki Bermuda shorts could have come out of my own grandmother’s closet. She was
the spunky kind of older lady, but still a Southern Belle. A man walked out of the station,
offering a cup of ice. Useless.
This is really the moment when Katie and I realize we have to take control. Use the
stuff we learned in Girl Scouts and years spent as camp lifeguards. Someone calls 911. We
hear the sirens. The confrontation in the gas station was perhaps the most mind-boggling
bit of this story, at least for me. As the clerk screamed at me that “I COULD NOT!!!” have
free water, I managed to grab napkins from a counter and a gallon jug.
“THANK YOU VERY MUCH,” I yell as I walk out.
By this point several things are clear:
—People Love Fire.
—People Are NOT Afraid of Fire.
—This lady needs help, and there I was. Called upon.
Her arms are red and blistered; we ask her where the fire started and she said it
rushed out at her, through the steering wheel, explaining the chapped forearm. As we lay
the damp napkins on her skin, there is obvious relief. Time seems to slow down. We have
to focus. We ask her name. Vera. Katie gives me that look that’s like crying and laughing
without spitting it all out; her grandmother’s name. We ask her where she lives. She cannot seem to slow down the manic slew of words tumbling out of her mouth. Questions,
screams, and yelps rise out of her. I continue to wonder if there will be an explosion, some
sort of burst. I feel like this is lingering in all our minds, none of us quite understanding
the mechanics of a bomb. And all we can do is continue to slowly place the cool soft napkins on her skin.
As I go to brush a blackened hair from her face, it all falls to dust. Each crowning
hair becomes ash, the product of a quick couple hundred degrees to the face and years of
high-end hairspray. That moment I will never forget. The look on her face as she realizes
her hair is gone. I understand that this isnt vanity. This is her crowning glory. Her womanhood. This is the south and even if I don’t like it, her hair is more important than that car
anyday.
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