Fire! Fire!

I'm going to have to make this quick.

Last night I was so tired. Beyond exhausted. Too much debauching in the early part of the week. Went straight home.

I picked up a few groceries on the way. I had an idea to try to cook fish. I am trying to make friends with fish. Apparently, eating them is good for you. Circumventing the gory Chinatown markets, I went to Fine Fare and picked up a suitably clean-looking Saran-wrapped salmon filet and some low-fat Creamsicles.

I looked through all my cookbooks and ran across the Barefoot Contessa's version of salmon and lentils. Cool.

The lentils were no problem, but I was so tired I kept dropping them all around the kitchen. I poured water into a glass and splashed all over the table. Tired. Tired.

The salmon was a bit of a problem when the Contessa instructed me to cut the skin off of the bottom of the fish. This was very upsetting. I got so freaked out I stopped cutting the skin about three-quarters through, and threw the rest of the fish away. I wasn't going to eat that much anyway.

Nonetheless, the salmon that remained seared perfectly. The oven was nice and hot. I transferred the fish from the stove to the oven to cook it for five to seven minutes.

I decided to throw out the garbage that contained raw fish. You don't want to have that stuff hanging around the house. I grabbed the bag, put on my flip-flops and went out to the foyer, when . . . slam!

As soon as the door slammed my blood ran cold. I remembered the door was on auto-lock. I tried the knob. Locked.

"Fuck. fuck. Fuuuuuuuuuck!"

Fuck! What am I going to do.

Fuck! Think.

I was locked out of my apartment holding a bag of raw fish.

And the salmon is in the oven on broil.

I looked all around at the closed doors. I picked a door of the neighbor I had seen eariler, coming up in the elevator, and knocked. No response.

"Shit!" I jumped up and down.

I knocked on the next door. Nice Israeli people live there.

Jackpot: Burly father and son, nice mom, all watching TV.

"I'm locked out," I said. "And the fish is burning. May I use your phone?"

Shit, shit. This is so stupid.

Mom handed me the phone.

Ok, who do I call? Locksmith? Dan, who has spare keys? It would take awhile for anyone to arrive. I started having visions of fish in flames, and innocent cats choking on smoke.

"You may want to call the Fire Department," Son said.

Oh lord.

I called 911 and got to the fire department.

"What's the problem."

"I'm locked out, and the oven is on."

"Is there a fire?"

"Not yet, but the fish is . . . . "

Oh gosh . . . duh . . .

". . . broiling, and will burn any minute."

"We'll send someone over." She took my address. We hung up.

I apologized profusely to the Mom and thanked her.

Down the hallway Dad and Son were hunched over my doorknob, wiggling their Blockbuster card in the crack of the door. Nothing was happening.

"Try your key," Dad said to Son.

Son put his key in the lock and turned.

The door opened.