I woke up in a bad mood on Tuesday morning because my wife had plans of her own and I wasn’t sure what I was going to do that night. Turns out, I had to pack an emergency bag and run away from a fire. Who knew?
I’m not that great at putting together an emergency bag, as it happens. I had a hunch that I might be getting it all wrong when I went to the store Tuesday afternoon. I felt sheepish as I tossed together a few things. You know, because I didn’t want anyone to think I was panicked about the giant wall of fire that was headed down on everyone in Los Angeles.
So, I grabbed a bag of Oreos. And three bottles of Diet Snapple. I got toilet paper and a few bottles of water because even I knew water was important. I would have gotten more, but like I said, I was sort of playing it cool. Which is even dumber than it sounds because I was the only person in the store at the time.
Just before we decided we had to go now, I packed some chargers, a few pairs of socks and underwear, my diary, and a fountain pen. I’m especially happy I thought to bring my fountain pen because you never know when someone will ask you to draft a Declaration of Independence. I’m just embarrassed I didn’t think to bring some parchment.
A friend said that I packed my emergency bag like I was going to a picnic. True, though if she’s bringing spare underwear and toilet paper to a picnic, one of us is doing something wrong.
I know I’m being glib, and I hope you’ll forgive me for that. I am sitting in a hotel lobby as I write this. Our house hasn’t burned down, though it is in the path of the fire. But, if it does burn, I’m okay. My wife is with me, and so is our dog, and our kids are grown and nowhere near the flames. But the part of town where I spent Tuesday morning doesn’t exist anymore, and I have friends who have lost everything. So no, I don’t want to be glib. But even now, I’m still just me.
A friend of mine texted a picture of what used to be her home. It was all rubble, except, cruelly, her fireplace. Everything else was gone. The question my wife and I keep going back to, over and over—the way you can’t stop your tongue from pushing at a loose tooth—is how could everything just vanish? So much is gone. Everything that seemed solid, buildings and all the stuff in them, was flimsy. And everything I knew on Tuesday morning about what my Tuesday night would look like was wrong as well.
When we got to the hotel that I was lucky enough to find once we’d started driving, we asked someone in line with us where he’d come from. He said, “I used to live in the Palisades, but my house just burned down.” The hotel I’m at right now is filled with people like him. There are kids running around in the lobby in their pajamas all day. There are a lot of dogs here too. Everyone seems to be in relatively good spirits, but they all look dazed.
When we got here, there were cookies at the front desk for new guests. The next morning, I asked when they were putting out the cookies again, and the guy at the desk told me that wasn’t something they usually do. Someone had just decided it was what people needed. That person, whoever they were, was right. I’m not an idiot. I know that people here will need a lot in the days and months to come, but yes, in that moment, we all did need a cookie. Because the answer to the realization that nothing is solid, that everything is here only for the moment isn’t to pretend that isn’t true. I think the answer is to fiercely appreciate all we are destined to lose. For today, for me at least, the answer is to be grateful for the person who thinks to put out cookies. Like the bag I assembled, it’s woefully inadequate, but really, in the face of a disaster like this, everything is. It’s not enough, it can’t possibly be enough, but for today, in this fleeting moment, I’m glad for it anyway.
