Playing with fire

On July 4, some kids set off fireworks on the roof of our new building. They were not piddly little firecrackers or bottle rockets--they were M-80s, also called quarter sticks of dynamite. At some point, the roof, the roof, the roof was on fire, and the FDNY was called. The firemen tried to jimmy open the front door with a pickaxe but couldn't budge it. If the fire department can't break in, chances are no one else can. Unless, of course, they blow it up with an M-80.

The next day Luis met with a fire inspector to look at the damage. The rear right side of the roof was charred, and the roof drain was clogged with debris and ashes. We figured out that the hooligans must have gotten onto our roof from surrounding rooftops. There must have been quite a few hooligans, since the empty boxes weighed 10 to 15 pounds each. I hauled them off on a disgustingly humid day, drenched in sweat. The stench of hot, wet ash and cardboard (it had rained the night before) almost made me throw up.

We were lucky no real damage was done. And though I cursed the perpetrators and muttered to myself that I would kick them six ways to Sunday if I found them, I couldn't throw stones too far. As a kid I was a bit of a pyromaniac myself. Like most Brooklyn kids in the 1960s and 1970s we used to shoot off firecrackers on July 4, back when almost everything was legal and easily available. I was fascinated by fire. Once, when I was about 7, Mom and I watched the brick apartment building next door to ours burn. I was mesmerized by the flames shooting out the windows, shattering the glass and slamming it to the ground. It was thrilling. My heart raced, not knowing what was going to happen next. Thankfully everyone was safely evacuated, and the firemen came and went. When it was all over, I said to myself, is that all there is to a fire? Is that all there is?

Witnessing this conflagration did not deter me from further forays into firestarting, however. One autumn another boy and I set a leaf pile on fire under the steel staircase of the church next door. The fire quickly spread, and we got so scared we ran away. The fire went out on its own, and my biggest tactical error was committing the crime within viewing distance of our kitchen window. My grandmother saw the whole thing and reported it to my mother, who usually spared me. But she was so upset she told my father, who made my behind as hot as the fire we had set.

With that kind of sanction, most kids would have ended their incendiary careers on the spot. But not me. We lived in a one-bedroom apartment. My parents slept on a Castro Convertible in the living room, and my brothers and I shared the bedroom. One night, after my parents went to bed, I was playing with my toys in the long hallway outside the living room, within spitting distance of my parents. I wore red and blue pajamas, which had a label that said "flame retardant." For some reason, God knows why (does an 8-year-old need a reason?), I was lighting matches in the hallway, inhaling the sulphur and watching as the blue and yellow flame sailed smoothly down the shaft of the match head. The blue was so intensely blue. How did it get so blue? Next thing I know, the blue is touching the tip of my finger. I stifle a scream. The match falls onto my pajamas, and for a split second, I hear a whooshing sound. The flame retardant substance on my pajamas had met the flame, and the fire had evaporated before it had even begun. But for a tiny moment my whole body had been on fire. The match was extinguished and I was perfectly fine, but I was so badly shaken I sat stunned in the hallway for what seemed forever, not knowing what had just happened. I could never bring myself to tell my parents. I learned my lesson that night about the risks of playing with fire.