Wednesday night, under a blood red moon, I climbed up the fire escape, past my upstairs neighbors making love on their couch, to the place where the metal framework bolts to the brick. I set a boot and bare hands carefully and I pulled myself up, lifting onto the arched bars then over the edge to the roof. In blue jeans and a black WWJD hoodie, a black leather jacket and two brown leather wristbands, I stood alone under the lunar eclipse and marveled at the blood of the sun.
Bobbi can’t understand skinny grrls. “How am I gonna find a double for *her*?” She rolls her big beautiful eyes with as much flare as her Texas accent rolling across her tongue. “No stunt double who can throw a punch has a butt that tiny.”
I spew Coke into my hand, laughing so hard my nostrils are carbonated. “I throw my own punches,” I offer.
Bobbie grimaces and pinches my cheek (not hard). “Have another chocolate cream.” Which is Bobbi-speak for, “Keep dreaming, Tiny.” Because at 5’11” and 185, Bobbi could be a stunt double for a stunt double.
Twice in my life I’ve fallen off fire escapes and broken bones. Once I jumped and once I was thrown but both times I fell. Guess the wings don’t always work. Now, when a throw a punch – a real punch – my wrist aches. My killer left hook makes me pay for it for three days afterwards. But I can’t stay away... not from defending myself and not from fire escapes.
They fascinate me. Which means that my cell phone memory is full up of snapshots of fire escapes from NYC to San Fran, from Phoenix to Vancouver. They catch my eye and I want to see what shape the bolts are and what state of disrepair they exist in. Are they caged in? Are they free? Are they accessible from the alley? Are they sharp with the scent of oxidization and time? Rusty old bones, metallic like blood, steadfast and patient. Hoping to never be used. Wishing they were. Forever useful. Never touched. Some kids like trees. I like fire escapes.
Wikipedia says Bobbi is: The chief grip on a set. Like a foreman, the key grip directs a crew of grips, some with specialized skills such as dolly grips, crane operators, camera car operators, etc. Additionally, the key grip is often the safety monitor, responsible for the safety of all personnel in the presence of theatrical ballistics, pyrotechnics, stunts, and any other potentially dangerous situations and devices operated by other departments.
A lady friend of mine calls Bobbi a guardian angel. I call Bobbi a friend but in my mind I kinda think of her as Mama Bobbi, or Big Sister Bobbi. Something past friend toward family.
A week or so ago, I chatted with Bobbi while she walked to her car. Her middle daughter was making dinner that night and Bobbi dreaded it. “What that grrl will do to my grandma’s recipes I do *not* want to see... let alone put in my mouth.” Bobbi worries that with no innate cooking skills, her daughter will grow up to live alone with cats.
“I live alone,” I offer as reassurance.
“You live with your mama. That’s not alone.” Then Bobbi pauses. “Plus, you don’t have no cats.”
We laugh and part ways. I didn’t tell her about the one-eyed, crooked tail cat that I sneak into my room at night and feed frosted animals crackers and Brazilian coffee with full cream. He lives on the fire escape outside my window. I think his name is Pelucir but he’s only whispered it once... when I fell asleep on my laptop and he had to wake my lame Qwerty self up.
Now don’t get me wrong. I read my lease. I know that the fire escape is not for climbing on. It is for emergency situations only and cannot be used as a plant stand, clothes dryer or urban balcony. But here’s the deal: I follow about 85% of man’s laws and 100% of God’s laws. I just don’t have room for more law-abidingness in my little ole life. So, I like to climb out my window when it rains. I like to sit out there, leaning back against the cold, hard metal, and let the rain drench me until my hair is straight and heavy, my jeans resemble scuba gear and my shirt is downright indecent. Because no one can see me. The sky is dark. The clouds are low. And the rain is right from God, falling on me in my little urban nest, all brick and steel. Because don’t all angels need a perch?
It seems like fire escapes are every where. Those little escapes from a fiery situation. There always seems to be a back way out. An easy way out. And I so rarely take it. My penchant for walking through fire only fuels my adoration of fire escapes. Maybe I like them because I know I’d never use them. How could I when walking through the flames brings me through more tempered?
Under that eclipse moon, circled with stars more brilliant than diamonds and certainly more intriguing, I thought about the nature of love. I thought about the hours in every day that I give to man and the hours in every day that I give to Christ. I pledged to drink less coffee... and take my bike out of storage. I thought about my father. I knew he was with me. I thought about you. So far away from me. I imagined you beside me. I smiled.
I decided that if there were a fire escape to Heaven, all rusty and old, never used and never needed, I would climb it just to stand up near that blood-red moon, to whisper in God’s ear, “Thank you.” And He would know exactly who I was talking about.
E.J.
