Whether it's arson, criminal neglect, or bad luck, no one knows. Our energies are focused on stopping the fires, not punishing whoever's responsible. Our hands are full. Lord knows we try to keep the most important things from burning. But in spite of our best efforts, now and then a big one gets away from us and we lose a courthouse, or a school, or sometimes an entire neighborhood.
We live in a charred shell of a city. Here, smoke always hangs on the horizon. Black columns billow up from every block and immolated homes spill smoldering bricks into the street. Homes, hotels, factories, museums, libraries, all have burned here, never to be rebuilt. Visitors to this city have noticed that the air here has an unnatural chill – I have heard it described it as a supernatural presence – but residents here will calmly explain that it's just because the smoke has blotted out the sun.
Because of our fire problem, firefighters serve this city beyond their traditional capacity. They have reached a sort of celebrity status. They are our priests, our jesters, our royalty. We all know their names. In addition to fighting fires, firefighters host radio call in shows, appear on talk shows, pen opinion columns predicting which city landmark will burn next. Their personal lives are gossiped about on the front pages of newspapers. Whenever a firefighter falls, businesses, municipal buildings and schools all close in mourning.
We are all aficionados of flames. We can identify the size of the fire and what's burning inside by its smell alone. Sundays in the spring, we pack picnics and drive around looking for the biggest and best inferno. Television ratings have reached an all time low. We're always outside, looking for fires. When the baseball stadium burned, everyone watched, but no one lobbied to rebuild it. Fires have become our national pastime.
