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Two good things came from my escape through the window. The first was that I was able to scream “FIRE!” out to the quad below. Someone looked up and I screamed again. This did the trick. Luckily, everyone in Copenhagen speaks English, and also lucky that a panicked scream about fire from a window high above has the universal effect of getting attention. The second good thing that came from the window moment was that I got a burst of tasty fresh air. Wow, I had no idea that breathing could be so invigorating.
Just as I was going to rejoin the “find a way out” team effort, one of the Swedes found the way out. The front door was now ready whenever we wanted it. Finally. Now let’s see what we can do about that fire.
This was mayhem unique unto itself. Johan thought the best way to put out the fire was to smother it. He was throwing anything and everything he could get a hold of onto the fire. This had two consequences. 1) The fire grew stronger. 2) Jenn’s ex-girlfriend’s entire wardrobe and many personal effects were now being destroyed. Johan may have been a sausage genius, but in fire emergencies it seemed like he was turning into a liability, not an asset. He was manic with frenzy and any attempt to reason with him was fully useless. He was going to smother this fire if it was the last thing he did, and there would be no stopping him.
Jurgen and I took a more pedantic approach. We kept throwing water onto the fire. The effect was very strong, but the hard part was getting the water fast enough. We both started in the bathroom — it was closer to the fire, and there was (in theory) more water available. There was only one problem: lousy water pressure. Not just regular lousy, but really lousy. How did this girl take a shower? My God, it was a slow trickle (still faster than the kitchen faucet, but very slow for a shower). I manned the toilet. Genius, I thought. No waiting. Just scoop it up. One problem: My cooking pot would not fit in the toilet bowl to get the water! I switched to a flexible hat that I saw nearby. But by the time I got the hat to the fire, there was no more water in the hat. Huh? Wow, time is of the essence; really need to get water to this fire, and I have found a hat with a hundred holes. Wicker!
Back to the kitchen for me. So I have this huge pot and I am trying to fill it with this slow-trickle faucet and it is taking FOREVER. As it slowly fills I am reminded of the max/min problems from high school calculus. A kid needs to reach his brother on the beach in the shortest time possible. He is swimming to him from the water. Since he runs faster than he swims, the question becomes at what angle should the guy start to swim to shore to minimize the time it takes him to reach his brother.
Here in the kitchen I have my own max/min problem. I need to balance the need for water against the time it takes to get it (the more water the better, but if I wait till I have the pot completely full, the water may not be of any use as the fire may be too large). I make my mental estimates of how much to fill the pot before making another dash. I muse on the humor of it all; that while the place is burning down, the most effective way to spend my time is to hold this empty pot and watch it fill with water.
Eventually, our combined water patrol efforts and Jurgen’s manic vigor in the fire-smothering department did the job. Finally, wow. Just the thought of taking the roof escape plan gave me the heebie-jeebies. As we were leaving the apartment, we saw the Danish fire brigade barreling up the stairs. FIVE flights! Long, heavy fire hose in tow. These guys were burly. Burly, but late. The fire was out. No work for these guys. The only problem for us was that the lead guy seemed hellbent on opening up that water hose, fire or no fire. This apartment needed to be hosed down like I needed a hole in my head. We persuaded them to take it easy and narrowly averted another chapter in the demise of this once cute apartment.
Outside we were greeted by an ambulance. We were told that we all were in risk of drowning and a trip to the hospital was in order. LOL. Huh? How am I going to drown? I don’t get it. Apparently, after one breathes smoke-infested air for any period of time, the lungs expel some sort of mucus. And you end up drowning in your own mucus. What a bad beat that would be! Survive the fire, then drown. LOL.
So we all pile in and make our way to the hospital. I went mostly to keep my buddies company. I knew that my smoke intake was way less than the other two. The Swedes – well, that was another story. They were a mess.
How is that? Well, as an aside to this story, I must diverge for a second. During the apartment chaos, we all tried to breathe through a shirt or something. I went the extra step and tried to keep my head as close to the floor as possible when moving around. The air was much better down there.
This idea was lost on the Swedes. I must have yelled at them over ten times to keep their heads close to the floor, but to no avail. For whatever reason, neither of them bothered. Who knows, maybe they figured Swedish lungs were not at the whim of smoke inhalation problems. I never got to the bottom of that one. What was certain is that these two guys had so much smoke going through them that they both actually had “smoke trails” flaring out from their nostrils. It was crazy looking for sure.
I had no smoke trails and felt fine. I was 100% for-sure-for-sure fine, but for the one in a million that one of my buddies was going to drown in the next hour or so, I decided to go as well. Anyway, we still needed to talk about what happened. It needed digestion time.
OK, so we get to the hospital, and holy cow, how depressing. I hate being the buzz killer, but this hospital was scary, which is hard to believe as, all in all, Denmark is one of the nicest places going. With its charming bars, very nifty buildings, and some of the nicest people around, you pretty much can’t go wrong. Unless that is, you have to go to a hospital.
The place we went may have been free, but man oh man, did it suck. The hallways looked very forlorn. The room they took us to had old beds, wornout sheets, and a few bedpans strewn about. It looked more like the sort of place they left you for dead. And on top of it all, the phlebotomist (the lady who takes a blood sample) was mean and clueless. It took her three attempts to find Jurgen’s vein and two for Johan. Me, I wouldn’t even let her try. This lady was certifiably insane! She said that I had to let her get blood from me. Are you crazy or what, lady? This is my body and, unless you have a gun nearby, you are not touching it. I told her that I was fine and I would not be drowning. She was affronted by my obstinance. In the end she gave up. The amazing thing was what motivated her. It was protocol. That was the reason. It was her only reason. Not “Hey kid, I could be saving your life,” or “This it is for your own good” or anything like that. Nope, just this is where I work and you will do as I say. LOL.
One of the doctors told us that we should stay overnight at the hospital – in case the drowning thing was to kick in a bit later. Are these people nuts? Unreal! There was no way I was wasting a day of my life in the musty old place. I was on a righteous drift-about and sleeping overnight here was never happening. The Swedes were happy to stay.
The staff had a conniption fit when I told them I was taking off. What if you drown? Or what if this, or what if that? I assured them and reassured them that, if I started to drown, I would get myself into a cab and rush myself to the hospital. And that was that. Free at last.
So I hop on a bus and start making my way back to this cool pub/chess/backgammon place in the center of town. On the bus I am met with some quizzical stares. I look about as bad as I have ever looked in my life. My clothes are black with soot, my hair is nasty beyond measure, my face and hands still have smoke stains on them. Trust me, I am a train wreck (actually, fire victim, but who’s counting?). If this were NYC, then no worries, just another Bellevue outpatient. But here in Denmark, if you are looking that ragged no one has a clue what is going on. The wholly disheveled are nowhere to be seen in Copenhagen. They are either hiding or don’t exist.
Two young kids (about 14 or 15) can’t stop half-staring at me. I am fairly sure they are thinking “Holy cow, look at that. Never seen anything like it. I think he is a madman. The very least he is homeless and crazy. What a strange thing to see in my cozy little town. I wonder what happened to him for him to end up looking like that? What a pity.” That sort of thing. I feel compelled to tell them the story. The pity deepens. “Wow, I read about schizophrenics, had no idea I would ever meet one!” I give up. My fate is sealed with these youngsters. I am a homeless, schizoid crazy man. There is no escape.
Just at that moment. Jens hops on the bus. Remember Jens? He was the guy who forgot to blow out the candles. The candles that eventually burned down the apartment. Yeah, that Jens. Well, he happens to be on the way to wake us up. Little does he know that the fire already did that.
What sort of weird-ass coincidence is this? There are a lot of busses in Copenhagen. And there is only one Jens. To top it off, this was my first time using the bus system. I still can’t believe it. What are the chances? Nonquantifiable is what they are. But if you could measure them, they would be about as remote as it gets.
We chat, I give him the run-down, and the two kids shake their heads in disbelief. Their belief system remains intact. You really will never see a homeless crazy man on the bus in Copenhagen. Fire victim, maybe; bum, never.
It was a wacky night for sure. In the end it cost us each a pretty penny. The four of us set up Jenn’s ex-girlfriend up with a new apartment, furnishings, wardrobe, etc. She had to start that semester over again as all of her books and personal belongings were destroyed, too. What a bad beat.
So that is my story. Was there a point? Does there have to be a point? I don’t know. Maybe there is no point. I am not in the mood for a gushy ending, like… Oh, isn’t it nice to be alive or any of that mumbo-jumbo. You are too smart for that crud. How about we just leave it for what it is. A life clipping.
Chill always, Me.
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