I don't think that I knew exactly what was going on at first. I had made it to the basement of the flophouse accompanied by a man who had lived in the building before it shut down, and continued to stay in his old basement “apartment” afterwards. Whether he was drunk or not I can't say for sure, but he had a fire in his eyes that was hard to ignore. He knew of the motherless child, he loved her. She haunted his days and nights as much as did his memories of past wars. She was a part of him, and he a part of her, in the same way that both were a part of the flophouse.
Underneath the east wing of the building, he had stacked piles of old used rugs and mattresses. “This is how we get out of here,” he said, “burn this place and all its memories to the ground.”
I was taken aback, but still under the awe of my recent ghostly visions. For some reason, I assumed the path that he wanted me to take was the true path, it was what needed to be done. We broke open the bottles of cleansing liquids with the flammable warnings and poured them on the rugs, on the mattresses, and splashed it on the ceiling above them. I had only to add the required ingredients and throw them on the mix. Columbine, sage, a rattle, and the painting of a cradle. I had found all of these, minus the sage, in my wanderings through the flophouse.
Without so much as a discussion, no questions, no talk, my housemate lit the stem of columbine. “Now, when I throw this,” he said, with his eyes suddenly wide open and crystal clear, “you run back upstairs and out the front door, understand?”
Before I could answer, he threw the flaming stem on the pile of rugs, stuck something in my hands, and pushed me toward the stairs. I had climbed all the way to the top of the stairs before I looked back, but all that I saw was a wall of flames. I could only assume that my partner in this crime had known of another way out. Or had decided to go down with the building, the only home he knew. The heat of the flames brought my senses back to me and I remembered exactly where the front door was, and bolted toward it. Not only did I remember where the front door was, but I had enough sense to keep running and not look back. I was on Burnside headed east before I heard the fire engines.
I've tried to stay on the east side since the fire, to put the event behind me. To truly evade such a crime, one must convince themselves that the event did not happen. I rarely even think about it. But I do ask about my accomplice at every hobo conference I see. Everyone seems to remember “Uncle Joad,” but no one has seen him since around the time of the fire. They all smile knowingly though when I repeat to them the poem, now committed to memory, he had shoved into my hand that last moment that I saw him. I've come to call it “Old New Love.”
Gone are the days that I bade goodbye With hearts on a wall
Because the cause for a love was a con
I couldn't believe
Till I found it
In the wasted remains
The waning of the moon
I saw the way it would end,
turned around and there was you
A coda to a cold life
A warm summer night
In the winter of my days
What has befallen me?
Call up the police
You have set fire to my heart.
Leaves have all fallen
Spring is forgotten
But you have awoken crocus
Deep in my heart
With your eyes
Two trees stood through a forest fire
Rose hips still de vine
Through the seasons your beauty remains.
I can't deny
Lips sweet as red wine
Vintage auld lang syne
Let me drink the rest of my days.
