A/N: Inspired by real life, but embellished, because although truth is sometimes stranger than fiction, it's often less interesting. This vignette is from a different perspective—not the people who usually supply our POVs. If the beginning seems mystifying, bear with me.

Chapter 2.

Frank Barron exited the parking garage and headed for the main road. He loosened his tie with one hand while he drove. He couldn't quite get it all the way off, but decided to be satisfied with the feeling of being only slightly strangled rather than completely suffocated.

The staff meeting had been interminable. Everyone was cranky in the heat, and Frank, as the boss, had to try to keep it together to set a good example. But now the day was over, and he could be a total bastard if he felt like it.

Well, at least for the forty-five-minute commute home.

He didn't know how Sheila did it—working all morning at the school office, and then having to pick the kids up the instant her workday was done. If there were any such thing as a Dick Tracy watch, he'd call her on the way home and tell her not to make dinner tonight; tell her that he'd pick up a pizza or something on the way home. Lord knew she deserved a break. He resolved that if the weather forecast were the same for tomorrow—intense heat, with no chance of relief even after sunset—he'd make sure she didn't have to cook tomorrow night.

In addition to wishing for a Dick Tracy watch, Frank coveted automatic windows. Bill next door was showing his off the other day, and while Frank had pooh-poohed the idea, he devoutly wished for the gizmos himself at this moment. Even with the driver's window rolled down, the heat was unbearable, and if he couldn't get his tie off without causing an accident, there was no way he could open the passenger-side window while on the move. But he chuckled as he realized his neighbor, whose wife was strict about such things, would never be allowed to do, in their fancy new car, what Frank was about to do.

He pushed in the cigarette lighter below the radio on the dash, and pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket. When the lighter popped out, he didn't even have to look to carry out the familiar sequence of actions, and within seconds was having his first delightful drag.

The nicotine filtered into his bloodstream, and he immediately felt more settled. He could handle the heat, now, and was looking forwards to getting home to his family. As he drove towards the freeway, he thought about lying in the hammock in the yard, watching the kids play. He finished his cigarette just as he hit the on-ramp, and tossed the butt out the window.

Yes sir, it was going to be a fine evening.

~!~!~!~

The smoldering cigarette butt landed on the side of the road, and was quickly blown and buffeted into the crisp, brown triangle of foot-tall grass between the on-ramp and the freeway. A tiny thread of tobacco was all that was still alight, but it quickly hooked up with a blade of dessicated grass, and a sputtering ember became the smallest imaginable fire. A minuscule wisp of smoke rose from the orange dot of flame, but was immediately blown away by the same breeze that planted the butt in the grass to begin with.

The breeze continued to fan the tiny flame, but no drivers, in their rush-hour haste, noticed anything amiss for quite some time. Eventually, though, the situation became noticeable. Passers-by had various thoughts:

"Is that really smoke? Or just dust. Probably just dust. I don't see how a fire could start there."

Or perhaps, "Nothing I can do about it now—I just got on the freeway, and it's illegal to turn around."

And this was frequent as well: "Oooh, a fire. Someone has surely already reported it, though. Besides, I can't imagine where I'd find a pay-phone."

After a few more minutes, a tow-truck approached. The driver pulled over and put his flashers on.

"Holy crap," the driver said out loud, even though nobody was with him. "That's getting a little bit out of control."

He picked up the radio that he used to stay in touch with the company's dispatchers.

"Hey Charlie, it's Steve. You there? Over."

A moment later, a voice came on the radio.

"What's going on, Steve? Over."

"Well, I'm about to get on the highway, right at Old Canyon Road, and I swear to God, the grass is on fire. Can you call the fire department for me? Over."

"Will do—you said the Old Canyon on-ramp? Over."

"That's the one. Over."

"Barry's calling right now. And it sounds like you forgot you have a fire extinguisher on your truck. Over."

Steve swore at himself. "Uh, yeah. I'll get back to you in a minute. Over and out."

He pulled the red can from the back of his truck, and pulled the pin out from the handle. The flames were over two feet high—double the height of the grass. Keeping one eye on the traffic, and the other on the fire, he aimed the nozzle at the tops of the flames, and squeezed the handle. Yellowish powder sprayed everywhere, and was carried by the wind as well. The flames subsided somewhat, but only in a small area.

Steve took a deep breath and held it, and moved a few steps closer to the fire. He felt the heat of the flames on his face as he again aimed at the tops of the flames, and squeezed the handle, waving the nozzle back and forth, until all the powder was gone. Once again the flames were only slightly quashed. He left the fire extinguisher where it was, and went back to his truck. He pulled out some of his traffic control gear, and set up cones and triangles to direct traffic away from the left side of the on-ramp, where the grass was now fully ablaze.

The flames grew, and grew, until Steve saw that they were getting dangerously close to where he had his truck idling. He didn't want to just leave—just get on the highway like he'd planned—but he also didn't think it was a good idea for him to be where he was at the moment. He carefully backed up fifty feet or so, until he was away from the danger, and then picked up his radio handset again.

"Charlie, Steve again, over."

Charlie picked up right away this time.

"Everything okay there? Over."

"Well, the fire's getting right up to the road. Can you call the cops, too? I think they oughta shut down the on-ramp, because—" Steve paused, as he heard a siren approaching. "Never mind. I think the fire department is here. I'll get back to you. Over and out."

Sure enough, after a station wagon—which swerved to avoid the flames on the left—and a pick-up truck passed by, the next vehicle up the ramp was a fire engine, with the number "51" emblazoned on its side. A sheriff's car followed, stopping at the bottom of the ramp so the deputy could begin to keep any more traffic from entering the area.

Steve watched as the fire engine pulled right up to the site of the fire. The driver positioned the large truck so it blocked the flow of any additional traffic—smart move, Steve knew, because the passing cars were probably more of a threat to the firefighters than the actual fire was. He himself had nearly been struck many times, mostly by people who were rubbernecking at the accident he was helping to clean up.

Two men jumped out from the truck, and pulled a hose off a reel. The guy who was driving did something with the controls that must have worked the pump, and water started to flow from the hose. A tall man in a helmet with a stripe on it finished talking on his mobile radio, and began approaching Steve's location.

Steve put a hand up in greeting.

"You the one who called us?" the lanky fireman asked.

"Yessir. I tried to put the fire out, with my fire extinguisher, but … it just didn't work. Sorry."

"Not a problem at all—it was smart for you to move away when you realized your extinguisher wasn't doing the job. And was that your handiwork keeping the cars to the right?"

"Yessir," Steve said again. "I hope that was all right. I have a permit for traffic control devices on the highway, so I thought I oughta steer folks away."

The tall fireman nodded. "Good call."

They both glanced over to the fire, and saw that it was mostly out.

"Wow," Steve said. "That was fast. How much water do you guys carry on there, anyhow?"

"Five hundred gallons. Enough to take care of something like this, or enough to buy us some time if we need to hit a hydrant. Captain Hank Stanley, by the way," the fireman said, sticking his hand out.

They shook.

"Steve Furman. I'm glad your guys made such short work of it. Sorry I couldn't put it out."

"Well, that's what we're here for. Come on—let's pick up your extinguisher."

The two headed to the engine, Steve trying not to gape at the truck that was a reminder of his (and all his friends') boyhood dreams.

The two firemen who had put out the fire were rolling the hose they'd used back onto its reel.

"We're all set, here, Cap," the shorter of the two said. "I don't think the fire was going long enough to make any real hot spots, but me and Marco'll walk through it just to make sure."

"Good," said Captain Stanley. He searched the ground near the grass, but didn't see what he was looking for. "You guys see a dry-chem can around here somewhere? I've got its owner, here."

"Sure, Cap—over there," said the fireman, pointing towards the rear of the truck.

Captain Stanley walked around to the back of the engine with Steve.

"Huh," Stanley said. "This is a good-sized can—it should've done the job, if it was full."

"It was full," Steve said. "I thought I used it right, too—I pulled out the pin, and sprayed back and forth while I squeezed the handle."

"Okay," Captain Stanley said. "But where were you aiming?"

"Uh—at the flames. Right? Where the fire was, at the tops of the grass?"

"Ah," the captain said. "There's the problem. You want to aim at the base of the fire—the lowest part that's burning. A lot of people make that mistake. The flames aren't actually what's burning—the stuff below is."

"Oh. So, I should've aimed more towards the ground?"

"Yep. Especially with a dry-chem can—the kind of fire extinguisher you have here, that's got a chemical powder in it."

"Sorry," Steve said. "I've put out a couple minor engine fires, in my towing business, you know? But I guess those were a lot smaller than this thing."

Captain Stanley nodded. "Aim for the base of the fire, and sweep the nozzle back and forth."

For a moment, both men watched the two firefighters walking through the area they'd just extinguished. They had their gloves off, and were feeling around near the ground to make sure everything was cool.

"Well, I guess I oughta head back to work. I was supposed to pick up a broken-down car a couple miles up the road," Steve said.

"We should be wrapped up here in a minute," Captain Stanley said, "and the engine will be out of your way. Thanks for stopping and calling this in—things could've really gotten out of hand, even in just a couple more minutes."

"I figured I oughta," Steve said. "I mean, there's no way for folks to get to a phone until that emergency phone that's what, two miles up the road or so? Besides, you never know if anyone's actually gonna take the time."

"Well, thank you for taking the time," Stanley repeated.

"You're welcome. And thanks for the tips about using the extinguisher."

The fellow who'd been working the pumps approached, and nodded to Steve.

"Cap, we're all set," the blue-eyed man said.

"All right—let's head back to the barn," the captain said. He shook hands with Steve again, and the firefighters climbed aboard their engine.

Steve went back to his tow-truck and replaced the now-empty fire extinguisher into its holder. As the engine pulled away, he surveyed the blackened triangle of grass between the on-ramp and the highway. The captain wasn't kidding about how the fire could've gotten out of hand—it could've spread all the way down the side of the highway, between it and the access road.

He had a sudden vision of Smokey the Bear, holding his shovel and saying "Only you can prevent forest fires." Well, it hadn't been a forest fire, and Steve hadn't exactly been able to put it out or prevent it. But he'd done his part, and he could leave the scene proud that he'd helped in his own way.

The End

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