Local hero saves the day (or night, as the case may be) by Steve Nadis
Sometimes, when you least expect it, a hero rises in our midst. It might be a person who’s never distinguished himself before in any way. A person, on the face of it, wholly lacking in the “right stuff.” A person, in other words, very much like me.
If such a person rises to the occasion--“stepping up to the plate” when circumstances warrant it--he should be recognized for his heroic deeds. And even if his deeds are not especially heroic--in the sense that he did not risk life or limb or otherwise jeopardize his retirement annuities--he should still be recognized for the mere act of acting. If this argument holds any water, it should not be undermined by the fact that the “hero” in question is none other than your humble narrator and sometimes correspondent.
As I’ve already intimated, I’m not your typical hero. Yes, I did save a guy choking on a chicken souvlaki a couple of years back. It was in the lobby of the American Repertory Theatre--my first and only chance to employ the Heimlich Maneuver. And, to my amazement, it worked. The guy spewed the remains of his sandwich on the floor, thanked me for the pelvic adjustment, and promptly resumed eating. I told him to take it slow--doing a choke signal and mock Heimlich gesture as reminders--and then returned to the ticket line. Unfortunately, I’d lost my place in the queue and had to stand patiently at the end, while the people in front of me haggled over seating arrangements for the next 10 seasons, one show at a time.
Then there was the guy from college I fished out of Pennsylvania’s Youghiogheny River while kayaking on a snowy spring day in the 1970s. He was losing it from hypothermia in the 30-ish degree water, and I ferried him to the shore, walked him to the road, and told him to wait there for the van. Twenty years later I ran into him in Cambridge. He was teaching at MIT at the time and brushed me off dismissively, saying: “Yeah, I remember you.” Maybe I should have left him floating there in the rapids of the mighty Yough. Or sitting on the roadside, waiting for a van called Godot. But what’s done is done. He has tenure now, and where am I?
Which brings us to the latest escapades of a week or so ago. It was 1:20 a.m. on a hot midsummer’s night. I needed to retire soon, knowing that my kids would wake me early the next morning (as they unfailingly did whenever I stayed up late). But before locking the door, I got curious about the smell of smoke outside. My neighbors had cooked on their deck earlier and, to my annoyance, they’d left their grill smoldering for hours. By now the smoke was blanketing our house, and I wondered why they hadn’t shut the darn thing off.
Upon closer inspection I realized it wasn’t the grill that was smoldering. It was their deck. And it wasn’t just smoldering, it was on fire. Literally in flames. I grabbed the phonebook and called them. They didn’t answer, so I called 911 instead.
After giving the EMS operator the address, I raced outside, wearing only my boxer trunks. I then scaled the fence, shouting as loud as I could to wake my neighbors. I turned on their hose full bore, getting drenched by the sprinkler it was attached to. Rather than waste time trying to detach it, I carried the sprinkler to the burning deck and started spraying, yelling for my neighbors until they finally stirred.
A couple of minutes later, the “first responders” arrived en masse. I tried debriefing the first fireman on the scene, but he pushed me aside, saying: “Get out of the way!”
My role in the proceedings was apparently done, and it was time for the professionals to fight over the meager embers I’d left behind. I climbed back over the fence and watched them take an ax to the deck, to make sure no subsurface combustion was still going on. My neighbors probably did not enjoy seeing that, nor were they likely to have enjoyed seeing their beautiful garden trampled by firefighters.
Deep down, I’m sure they’re holding the whole thing against me. For the sad truth is, you shouldn’t go into the hero business expecting a ticker-tape parade. Or even gratitude. Nobody likes owing anybody anything--whether it’s the 10 bucks you lent them, the roof over their heads, or their lives.
While the images of a blazing deck already seemed surreal, I had no doubts about what I’d done--or about what might have happened had I not followed my nose. “All in a day’s work,” I told myself when I finally crawled into bed--an hour later and several gallons soggier. I did a self-Heimlich for good measure, closed my eyes, and dreamed of Lenny Skutnik.
If such a person rises to the occasion--“stepping up to the plate” when circumstances warrant it--he should be recognized for his heroic deeds. And even if his deeds are not especially heroic--in the sense that he did not risk life or limb or otherwise jeopardize his retirement annuities--he should still be recognized for the mere act of acting. If this argument holds any water, it should not be undermined by the fact that the “hero” in question is none other than your humble narrator and sometimes correspondent.
As I’ve already intimated, I’m not your typical hero. Yes, I did save a guy choking on a chicken souvlaki a couple of years back. It was in the lobby of the American Repertory Theatre--my first and only chance to employ the Heimlich Maneuver. And, to my amazement, it worked. The guy spewed the remains of his sandwich on the floor, thanked me for the pelvic adjustment, and promptly resumed eating. I told him to take it slow--doing a choke signal and mock Heimlich gesture as reminders--and then returned to the ticket line. Unfortunately, I’d lost my place in the queue and had to stand patiently at the end, while the people in front of me haggled over seating arrangements for the next 10 seasons, one show at a time.
Then there was the guy from college I fished out of Pennsylvania’s Youghiogheny River while kayaking on a snowy spring day in the 1970s. He was losing it from hypothermia in the 30-ish degree water, and I ferried him to the shore, walked him to the road, and told him to wait there for the van. Twenty years later I ran into him in Cambridge. He was teaching at MIT at the time and brushed me off dismissively, saying: “Yeah, I remember you.” Maybe I should have left him floating there in the rapids of the mighty Yough. Or sitting on the roadside, waiting for a van called Godot. But what’s done is done. He has tenure now, and where am I?
Which brings us to the latest escapades of a week or so ago. It was 1:20 a.m. on a hot midsummer’s night. I needed to retire soon, knowing that my kids would wake me early the next morning (as they unfailingly did whenever I stayed up late). But before locking the door, I got curious about the smell of smoke outside. My neighbors had cooked on their deck earlier and, to my annoyance, they’d left their grill smoldering for hours. By now the smoke was blanketing our house, and I wondered why they hadn’t shut the darn thing off.
Upon closer inspection I realized it wasn’t the grill that was smoldering. It was their deck. And it wasn’t just smoldering, it was on fire. Literally in flames. I grabbed the phonebook and called them. They didn’t answer, so I called 911 instead.
After giving the EMS operator the address, I raced outside, wearing only my boxer trunks. I then scaled the fence, shouting as loud as I could to wake my neighbors. I turned on their hose full bore, getting drenched by the sprinkler it was attached to. Rather than waste time trying to detach it, I carried the sprinkler to the burning deck and started spraying, yelling for my neighbors until they finally stirred.
A couple of minutes later, the “first responders” arrived en masse. I tried debriefing the first fireman on the scene, but he pushed me aside, saying: “Get out of the way!”
My role in the proceedings was apparently done, and it was time for the professionals to fight over the meager embers I’d left behind. I climbed back over the fence and watched them take an ax to the deck, to make sure no subsurface combustion was still going on. My neighbors probably did not enjoy seeing that, nor were they likely to have enjoyed seeing their beautiful garden trampled by firefighters.
Deep down, I’m sure they’re holding the whole thing against me. For the sad truth is, you shouldn’t go into the hero business expecting a ticker-tape parade. Or even gratitude. Nobody likes owing anybody anything--whether it’s the 10 bucks you lent them, the roof over their heads, or their lives.
While the images of a blazing deck already seemed surreal, I had no doubts about what I’d done--or about what might have happened had I not followed my nose. “All in a day’s work,” I told myself when I finally crawled into bed--an hour later and several gallons soggier. I did a self-Heimlich for good measure, closed my eyes, and dreamed of Lenny Skutnik.
