Flaming Messiah
(page 6)
Another scenario was more heroic, but practical. I quickly did an internal mental calculation. I realized that if I, or we, couldn't put the fire out instantly, the best thing to do was to grab the victim by the scruff of the neck and the belt and simply throw him out of the room through the beaded door out into the semi-empty restaurant. The result would have been to localize the fire and to minimize the possibility of it spreading in the crowded bar room. Lives would be saved. Damage would be averted and the restaurant customers would be treated to a floor show when they saw a flaming Jesus sliding across the linoleum. It'd be really cool.
But the scenario I decided to focus on was the simplest and most expeditious, certainly the least dramatic. I reached out to the Messiah as one would reach out to Jesus if he were standing there in front of you... thinking back to my Boy Scout manual... and beat down the fire with my hands. I doubt that Billy Graham would have done the same.
It was out in a fraction of a second. Fortunately for all the unaware party guests, he was small and I have big hands. It must have looked strange to anyone who wasn't standing within two feet of the event. As I said, it was so crowded in the room that a short person 3 feet away quite possibly wouldn't have been able to see any of it. If it had gotten out of control, no one would have even known about it until it was too late. Technically, I was a hero. I rejoiced inwardly.
The little newly extinguished Jesus quickly straightened his glasses which were now cockeyed on his face from me smacking him down, and whisked himself out of the room. He was brushing himself off as he stumbled out of the room, trying to regain his composure after being flogged by a stranger. I still stood there in the same spot and loomed over the crowd as I had before. No one, save maybe one or two people, had any idea thatanything had just happened. In fact, Deborah pointed out later that it seemed that the only person that saw anything at all was Nick Hartcourt, the host of the morning music program... the focal point of the party. She said that he had seen me at precisely the moment I was wacking the head of the Lord. She said that he had a disgusted look on his face as if to say, "The nerve of that brute to come in here and beat up that poor little fellow at this nice party. What a jerk !" If only he had known. If only he'd seen that I'd just saved his life.
We decided to try to salvage the evening by working toward the food table and getting the last of whatever crumbs of cake were there, if there was anything left at all. It was difficult. We shuffled toward the table like penguins so we wouldn't step on anyone's feet. I was done drawing attention to myself.
There seemed to be no possibility of getting into a conversation with anyone on the way either, other than, "Oops, sorry. I didn't mean to step on your toes," or "Excuse me, I'm sorry I dropped that piece of cake down your shirt." Everyone else already seemed to know each other and were already engaged in their own conversations. I guess that's why they were all dressed alike; They were part of a club or something.
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