South Central Noir

He pulled up in front of Fire Station 33. It sat on the corner of Main and East 64th, across the street from a Catholic church. He stopped the pickup on the west side of Main facing south. From that angle he could see the station’s redbrick building from the flagpole to the markings on the road that warned: Keep Clear. He could see the station’s mascot painted on the far wall. Underneath the words Fire City was a ferocious bulldog. It had a spiked collar and a resolute expression; it was a symbol of pride and brotherhood. Most importantly, he could see the three large garage doors of copper and bronze. He imagined the valiant and mighty fire engines rolling out of those gates: rugged, brave, and with serious purpose. He envisioned himself wearing the yellow helmet with the red shield. He would carry an ax in one hand and the strength of a hundred men in the other. He would have the respect and admiration of the whole community.

He killed the engine and clicked off the headlights. The street went black. He slid the seat back and waited for the alarms to sound. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His body temperature dropped, his heart rate slowed. He felt his whole body go numb. He was floating in midair, a warmth bathed over him. Something between the heat and the light called out to him.

Olin jerked awake to a horrifying face at his window. In his groggy state, he was frightened to see a creepy old man watching him sleep. He had a pointy nose, a high forehead, and sharp teeth. Olin turned to his right to see an equally menacing character. He thought the ugly faces were very strange until their high-pitched voices gave them away. He opened the door and shouted, “Beat it, you punks!” Two kids playing outside late at night. They ran off laughing. The oversized rubber masks wobbled on their small heads. “Little shits.”

He pulled away from the station but it was only a matter of minutes before he felt another pair of eyes upon him. These were almost certainly more menacing. The vehicle behind him had the brightest white lights, like bleached snow. It was either coincidentally traveling the same route or trailing him with ill intent. Olin started to get jumpy until he saw the car turn off. Once more, the night was still.

Back in the Lavandería the next night, Olin filled his pockets with quarters from the appliances. He told himself it was for the right reasons. When he locked the glass doors he noticed a strange car parked in the lot — it was some rowdy ruffians smoking pot and drinking beer. They revved the engine and zoomed off. Not paying much attention, he strode up to the bed of the truck. He snatched a rusty gas can out and pumped it full across the street. No more waiting for fire. From now on, the engines would come to him.

He drove down Figueroa past Florence in the Vermont Knolls neighborhood. He parked on 74th Street just past the Parlour Motel. With the can of gas in tow, he walked down the alley. It was dark, narrow, and covered in trash, infested with armies of vermin, maggots, and fleas. The area reeked of human excrement. Large rats brazenly chased each other through piles of rotting food squealing like toddlers in a playground. It had a sickening stench.

Olin jumped when an angry pit bull charged at him barking sharply. It bounced off the chain-link fence that confined him. Olin kept his head down and walked toward a metal dumpster overflowing with garbage in the middle of the alley. He poured the combustible fluid atop the debris and jumped back as it splashed toward him. He found pages of newsprint that had blown against the fence and rolled them tightly, then ignited them with a cheap lighter. He tossed the fiery torch into the dumpster and the contents flared, popped, and roared against the charcoal sky. He watched as it lit up the nearby trees. Flames like red clay and sandstone flashed upward and outward.

Olin dashed to the truck. From his vantage point, slouched in the front seat, he peered down the alleyway. With his window open, he heard the restless neighborhood stir. Station 33 fire engines hastened past him with sirens swirling and shrieking. More fire trucks barreled around the block. Two men in uniform discussed the fire.

Olin focused on the flames. He felt the heat on his face, white-hot and faithful. He smelled the poisonous gases of burning rubber and plastic. The toxic fumes grew stronger and the black smoke thicker. For a fleeting moment, the tremor of the torrid flame quelled his loneliness.

Olin was getting wound up and twitchy, and decided to move his vehicle down the street. A black-and-white rolled toward him shining its spotlight. Olin froze and looked forward, and the cop rolled on. He checked the rearview and saw the wide-angle view of the chaos. He knew it was all him.