Ah, Regret.

Going down in a gay blaze of glory


“I’m going to need you to fill out a Witness Statement form,” said the fire detective.  Well, if I had a computer and a lot more time and energy, here’s what I would have written:

[Warning: This is one of those posts where things stop being polite and start getting real.  Also, it is really long.  But for your entertainment I attempted to make it as gay and hilarious as possible.  You’re welcome!]

It was a Saturday afternoon like any other.  Four dykes (and the adopted child of two of them) hanging out in a garage, working on a motorcycle.  Some might call it the American Dream.  Others (who perhaps don’t subscribe to this particular RSS feed) might point to this story’s ending as proof that America is going to (a rather literal version of) hell because god hates homosexuals.  Praise jeebus.

Anyway.  The dykes were Erin, Bondy, Madge, and me.  (The kid–I trust you can use process of elimination to figure out whose– was Evi.)  The garage was Bondy and Madge’s, and the bike was Erin’s (she’s not gay–she just likes to own two motorcycles and a pickup truck).  The plan for the day was to clean the bike’s carburetor.  In order to achieve this goal, Bondy and Erin set to work utilizing their engine mechanic skills (GAY!), while Madge and I set to work utilitzing our providing-cold-drinks-and-moral-support skills (in the gayest way possible).

Once everyone had completed the tasks for which their particular aptitudes were best suited (carb had been cleaned and beers had been fetched), it was time to put some gas in that bike and take her out for a spin.  (This is the part where things start heating up!)  So Bondy and Erin poured gasoline into the fuel tank.  But then the tank started leaking heavily–the fuel line must have gotten pierced during the day’s mechanical activities.  So while Bondy grabbed some kitty litter to soak up the worsening flood of gasoline, Erin examined the hemorrhaging fuel tank area to figure out what was going on, and the space heater sitting a few feet away from the bike continued to provide heat for the cold garage.  OK, kids!  What’s wrong with this picture?

Whoosh.  You know that sound the stove top gas burner makes when it lights up?  That’s what I heard as the bike burst into flames three feet away from me (and three inches away from Erin’s face).  Whoa, shit!  Evacuate!  I bolted out the side door of the garage.  Madge and Evi’s backs had been turned the whole time, but once they realized what was going on they followed suit.  With a fiery motorcycle blocking her and Erin’s exit route, Bondy managed to open the main garage door so that the two of them could escape as well.

OK, we’re all safe.  Phew.   But…  OMG THE GARAGE IS ON FUCKING FIRE!!!  What do we do?!  Think quick!  Madge’s idea of throwing a tarp over the flaming motorcycle is rejected due to the tarp’s flammable nature.  Erin’s idea of rolling the flaming bike out of the garage is duly rejected due to her skin’s flammable nature.  Keep thinking.  Suddenly the automatic garage door malfunctions and closes itself (making the aforementioned courses of action seem like even worse ideas than we had initially determined).

Now, let me digress for a moment here.  As you may know, lesbians are often categorized (by themselves and others) based on gender roles, using terms like “butch” and “femme”. How many times have you looked at a lesbian couple and thought (out loud, perhaps!), “She’s definitely the boy.  And she’s the girl.”  Well, as Bondy or any other lesbo could tell you, despite outward appearances and your smug little assumptions, many lesbians don’t adhere to strict boy/girl roles.  “We keep ’em guessing.”

Right.  So here’s the scene, and you can make your best guess:  Bondy has raced into the house to call 911.  Madge has located a small fire extinguisher and is fiddling with it while calling out for Bondy to come help her get the f-ing thing to work.  I have stationed myself at a safe distance from the garage, doing what can only be accurately described as “fretting”.  And where’s Erin?  Erin, dear readers, garden hose in hand, is now running into the blazing garage to fight the fire herself.

(Fortunately) our amateur fireman is quickly forced to retreat from the acrid smoke.  Meanwhile, we can hear faint sirens in the distance.  And something else–what’s that?  A train?  On the tracks that cross over the main road leading to Bondy and Madge’s house?  Oh excellent.

At some point (Minutes later?  Hours?  Urgency is time-distorting) the screaming engines finally arrive.   A crew of firefighters, decked out in suits and oxygen tanks and the whole deal, walk (walk!  Why aren’t they running?!) down to the garage with the hose.  We all stare at the hose in anticipation.  Minutes (hours!) pass.  The hose remains flaccid.  We stare harder.  Come on, #@&?$% hose!  The firefighters at the garage yell to their colleagues at the truck to get them some water now!  The firefighters at the truck continue to shout at each other and frantically turn knobs, never having imagined that they would one day need to put their fire academy skills to use.  Erin is quite ready to go turn the water on herself.  Finally the hose inflates as we mentally calculate how much damage has already been done. Have we ever felt so helpless as we did tonight?

Once they had actual use of water, the firefighters got things under control fairly quickly.  “Under control” looked something like this:



Let’s just say that relief (of the fire having been extinguished) wears off pretty quickly when you’re looking at a scene like that.

Anyway.  Now that things had cleared up a bit, Erin was wondering what became of her jacket, which had been left behind in the blaze.  Its pockets had contained her wallet, some cash, and the hard-to-find  earplugs that equalize pressure in her eardrums and, as she likes to say, “prevent them from exploding” during air travel.  Moderately important stuff.  However, when she asked one of the firemen about getting the items from her jacket, he snapped back, “Go in the house!”  

Hmm.  Perhaps the arson investigation wasn’t over yet? (Hopefully they would be able to find the evidence they needed to lock up that space heater for good this time.)  And what was Erin so worried about, anyway?  Certainly if these fine upstanding firefighters happened upon some cash, they would dutifully leave it where they found it.

Later the fire detective pompously informed us that he always checks the scene of a fire for drugs; you’d be surprised how often he nabs people that way!  Why, for a second there, he thought the earplugs in Erin’s jacket pocket were syringes!  Heh heh heh!  But ah well, not this time.  I’m sure you can imagine with what supreme admiration we gazed upon this noble executor of justice.  

(In case you were wondering: Although parts of the jacket burned up, the wallet and earplugs were intact.  The cash in the surviving sections of the jacket seemed to have been left untouched.  There had not been any drugs inside [this time!  heh].  Also Erin’s entire set of keys, which had been attached to the bike since she had the bike’s key in the ignition, was remarkably un-melted–just discolored [although any non-key items, i.e. keychain and gym membership card, burned up].  See below for the bike, “before & after” style.)


Good thing Erin still has her dirt bike (GAY!) to ride around town picking up girly girls. Well--at least until THAT carb needs to get cleaned.

So what did we learn?  Don’t hang out with Erin (but usually it’s not quite so catastrophic)?  Friends don’t let friends use space heaters (how’s a dyke mechanic supposed to stay warm)?  A woman’s place is in the kitchen (wait, no–she could start a fire in there, too)?  Well I for one learned that you should make sure to have friends with not only a really good sense of humor, but also fire insurance.  

Yes, you should cherish these friends and hope that they’ll ever let you come over their house again.  Because if not, guess what–you won’t be seeing the season premiere of The L Word.  But seriously–thank you Bondy and Madge for being so kind to your baby dyke friends.  Now please come over and burn down our garage so we don’t feel so bad.


7 Comments so far
Leave a comment

Pretty much.

Comment by Bondy

honestly, im crying with laughter right now. that was quite possibly THE best post ive ever read. hands down.

and um, your possibly related posts include: “God made us sisters, prozac made us friends”. how fitting!
she’s not gay–she just likes to own two motorcycles and a pickup truck (i kept waiting for the part about the ride/kiss clause)
also, id like to hear more about the flammable nature of erin’s skin. i hear it’s HOT.

erin, get a blog now, seriously. val, i hope sarah warn reads this and weeps for losing you.

Comment by iwentwest

omg, that made my night. hilarious.

i’m pleased to say that even at my advanced age, i am still capable of learning a few lessons:
1) fire is bad
2) never willfully enter a room full of fire
3) fire is bad

see you sunday :)

Comment by madge


Comment by VallyO

now WHY dont they have shit like that on the L Word???? VAL I LOVE YOU!!!!

Comment by Aileen

[…] But lesbian sexual harassment–now that is just appalling (scissoring!  Or whatever is is you lesbians do!  *shudder*)!  It’s disgraceful! This country is going straight (no pun intended) to hell. […]

Pingback by “The L Word” 6×03: OMFG « Ah, Regret.

[…] And considering the fact that Erin was involved, I’m thanking my lucky stars that neither the cake nor the kitchen ended up in flames. […]

Pingback by We’re not gay… « Ah, Regret.

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