Burn It Down by Kevin Wood

Tony is driving straight at the flames we can see a mile away. Grinding the gears, clutching too rough. He’s not saying anything, and I don’t ask. He’s gripping the wheel with his hairy knuckles like it’s gonna fall off. We spin around the corner to a street where houses so close they can touch each other duck down beside one shooting colors into the dark sky. The heat. You can feel it—like someone’s dank-ass morning breath is blowing into the car. Tony should be taking me home. It’s late. Sunday. He knows fifth grade starts early. But he slams it into park next to these massive trucks. I can hear glass shattering. Tony jumps out and runs to the backyard of house next to the one on fire. And I’m left sitting there.

I should say here my relationship with Tony is weird. It’s just me and mom at home, in a house thick with sadness that hovers like a rain cloud. Tony comes now and then cuz mom has this idea her little brother can be a stand in for no dad even though he’s twelve years younger. Sometimes Tony takes me for the weekend and we drive in his clunker hatchback to his apartment across town, with his CD player and cable TV mom doesn’t have. I line up empty Coke cans in the kitchen by his Budweiser, like it’s a contest. We go to the pool and Tony whistles at girls while I dive for coins. He always has a cigarette he rolls that doesn’t smell like mom’s cigs. He goes out late while I watch MTV and comes home stumbling on my air mattress in the front room. Then he doesn’t pick me up for like three months. Just when I get used to not seeing him, Tony busts in like he only went out for beer. So I mostly sit in my room listening to some sad shit and avoiding mom’s dead stares. She snaps alive when Tony is there but it’s not pretty. A lot of yelling about whatever. Then he and I leave. I’d go anywhere to get outta there.

The firetrucks’ swirling lights make everything look jerky. I stare at the burning house and feel numb. What’s Tony doing? Minutes that could be hours. But I start to get itchy with this strange surge of energy—like when Superman rips his shirt off. I get out and go find Tony in the neighbor’s backyard. Some guy is running back and forth on the roof like he’s being chased. Embers from next door fly and land on the shingles—little glowing specks itching to ignite. Tony is spraying the roof with a garden hose. He sees me and nods. The heat from that fire. Damn. Sirens scream and I hold my ears. The man on the roof points at another hose. Tony shoves me and I run and grab it and stand next to him and we drench the guy’s roof with sprays that shine in the flame-light like Vegas. The grass is a swamp from all the water. Tony takes off his flashy Jordans and puts them on the patio. I do too even, though my Converse are super ratty. I’ve always been jealous of his sneaks. And we stand there, barefoot, mud squishing between our toes. Tony pulls off his shirt and wipes his grimy face—tosses it at me. I turn then … look at the fence between the yards. The wood is already scorched black. I climb to sit on top and start spraying it with the hose. Tony doesn’t make like he notices but I think he does. I can see the burning house sagging like a skeleton can’t hold itself up. The firemen yell at me but see what I’m doing and leave me alone. Mud-thick smoke squeezes my throat til I can barely breathe. It feels like the whole night I’m up there. But I don’t stop til Tony does, then jump down. The man on the roof thumbs-up at us. His house didn’t catch. Then we drive away like nothing happened. The streets are empty. We don’t talk. Michael Jackson blares on the radio. Tony lights a cig and hands it to me. I breathe in and cough. He laughs. We get home; I tell mom what happened. She stands at the door glaring at Tony and pushes me inside. See you later, El, he says, even though I’m Elliott and he knows I hate El. I go to my room and sit on the bed. My body buzzes and I feel alive—more than I can remember. Tony’s car door slams. He’s gone.

Years later, I’ll do shrooms one sweltering Saturday and that night will re-ignite in my mind. I’ll think about Tony. How he up and moved to Cali for whatever new promise he thought that meant and only called once, and I told mom to tell him to fuck off. He was my better than nothing. I didn’t realize that mattered til he wasn’t. Maybe he would have called again if he’d stuck with the program instead of killing some poor family and his sorry self on the I-5. But mostly, I’ll remember how quick Tony was at that fire. How he drove right at it and jumped in. Like he didn’t think. And how I really didn’t know him at all. Tony used to say I had this annoying habit of overthinking everything. But it’s funny. Sometimes, when something wild happens, someone will say I deal well. Step up. Take charge. They’re surprised. Like they don’t expect it from the quiet queer guy. I’ll spend plenty of time pissed after those early years when it felt like Tony dropped a match whenever he came and went, burning our home down bit by bit. But there was also that time Tony showed me how to keep a home standing. Not ours. But someone’s. And that … that was something.

Kevin is a Cajun-born, Texas-raised, New York-adopted, queer editor, writer and writing coach now living in Barcelona, Spain. A former educator, Kevin has taught elementary and university and presented nationally on social justice teaching. Writing has appeared in Fast Company, Witness, TODAY Show, Washington Post, Brevity, and Litro, among others.

14 June 2024