Last night, I was back in the bar at the top of The Huntley Hotel, nursing a gimlet and pondering the difference between “contained” and “controlled” when five guys walked in who did not resemble the typical clientele. Tee shirts, ball caps and flannel. They were looking for room at the bar, and didn’t hesitate to say hello when they recognized me.
“Holy shit!” said one. “What are you doing here?”
I smiled and shrugged. “Everybody’s gotta be somewhere I guess.”
“Are we on an episode of Dirty Jobs?” said another. “Should I call my agent?”
I laughed along with the men and said, “You won’t need an agent for this gig. You’re already the stars of the show.”
The men laughed and paused for a photo, at my request. These were firefighters from up north, who had come down to relieve their brothers and sisters who’d been slogging through hell for the last 48 hours. They had just arrived in Santa Monica, where they’d been put up at the same hotel that I’ve been hunkered down in for the last few days.
“A drink before the war?” I asked.
“You know it,” said the short one.
“It’s important to stay hydrated in our line of work,” said another.
A short guy with a wide grin introduced himself as Andy Garcia, and told me that he and his fellow firefighters were part of Lookout Fire Department around Mt. Shasta. Engine 4822 and water tender 4830.
“We got down here as quick as we could,” said Andy. “This is gonna be one for the history books.”
“I’m afraid you’re right about that,” I said.
Earlier that day my friend Manju, the hotel manager at The Huntley, asked me say hello to one of the fire chiefs, who had a video on his phone that simply defied description. It was filmed at 2pm the day before, but it looked like 2am. The sky was filled with black smoke, and dark as pitch. His men were visible however, illuminated by towering flames that surrounded them as they fought to save another home, only to see it crumble before them. The chief wept as the video played.
“My men are exhausted,” he said. “Would it be possible to free up a few showers in the hotel?”
The hotel was slammed, but Manju vowed to find some empty rooms.
“I know that many of our guests would be honored to give up their beds for a few hours,” she said.
“Thank you,” said the Chief. “But there’s no need for beds, because there’s no time to sleep. Showers though, would go a long way.”
There’s not much new to say about the calamity that continues to unfold here. The situation is, as they say, fluid. Like many of you, I have some thoughts about the policies that precipitated this disaster, and the elected officials who enacted those policies. I also have some strong opinions on what to do with people who fly their drones over a disaster area, and damage the aircraft piloted by men who are trying to fight the fire. Perhaps I’ll share some of those thoughts when the inferno is finally contained, or better yet, under control. For now, though, my thoughts are with Dwane, Paul, Alex, Efrain, and Andy. Five guys who stopped by the hotel bar for a drink before the war. Men who traveled hundreds of miles to risk their lives on my behalf.
Thank you gentlemen and be careful out there.
Mike