It was the most ordinary Tuesday in September when the fire hydrant on our street burst open. Some nozzle or cap had simply had enough of doing its job – we could all relate – and water came gushing out. No one had ever paid any mind to the yellow fire hydrant before, and a little water wasn’t going to change that on this particular Tuesday.
By Wednesday however, there was a small current flowing down our gutters. It clearly ran east towards Kensington Court despite previous claims that ours was the flattest street in town, unbiased toward any one direction. We soon began building popsicle stick boats and raced them feverishly. It started innocent enough with little Jimmy Bigelow dropping a twig into the water and racing it on foot. But soon wagers were made, and then came boat spec regulations, qualifying heats, and a Competition Committee was formed.
By Friday, the water filled the entire street as the fire hydrant continued to shoot out a steady stream like projectile vomit. So we threw on our swimsuits and waded waist deep to bring casseroles to the Widow Johnson, or we floated on our backs to go attend Carol’s surprise 40th birthday party. It was also on this afternoon that the Fire Department arrived. They spent an hour trying to cap the hydrant but were unsuccessful and left, citing something about tax money allocation and limited resources. They were good looking, though, as firemen tend to be, and offered their condolences. “Good luck,” they said with pearly white smiles. “We wish you nothing but the best in this situation.”
By the following Tuesday, the water had reached the top of our front doors. We could no longer tell whose doors were bright red with brass knockers and whose were just tired brown wood. We thought we had them memorized, but turns out it wasn’t as easy as you might think. We exited second story windows and dog paddled to each other’s houses. Borrowed olive oil. Traded for toilet paper. Mr. Callahan showed off his mastery of the breast stroke. Kicking like a frog and gulping air like a fish, but none of us liked him very much, and so we gave him the one-ply.
When the news helicopters arrived and hovered overhead like curious looky-loos, Mr. Jones fired up his 24’ MasterCraft and taught the kids how to waterski. And when Declan Santori brought out his wakeboard and started showing off for the girls – just as he did every football season, three-time state champ – we all hung out of our bedroom windows and chanted, “Jump! the! wake! Jump! the! wake!” We hadn’t felt such community since the last 4th of July block party when Mrs. McMillan made her famous potato salad and we all chipped in to get the good fireworks. But soon the helicopters scattered like pigeons as there was a school shooting at Crossroads Middle School. Plus it turns out that looking at a street under water isn’t as good for ratings as one might hope. So without the allure of the news copters, the boat was anchored, and we all retreated into our houses and closed the windows as water slowly filled our rooms like in the second hour of Titanic.
Now we sit on rooftops. We dangle our toes in the water and reminisce about backyard barbeques, evening bike rides, and the smell of a freshly mowed yard. Food is getting a little scarce, but we aren’t worried. We used to finger-scroll past headlines about floods in places like Sudan and Indonesia, but our street is nothing like those places. We have smart homes, Ninja blenders, and HBO Max.
Mr. Jones spends most of his time fishing even though we tell him there are no fish on Montgomery Lane, silly. So far he has only snagged a Bon Appetit magazine and the Willoughbys’ cat. We used to still talk to one another, yelling from rooftop to rooftop, but our throats have gone dry and the gossip has run thin. Declan and his buddy Mark Lydell spend their days throwing the football back and forth. They live five houses apart, but man does Declan have a rocket for an arm. The rest of us barely notice the ball whizzing overhead anymore. We haven’t seen Widow Johnson yet. We all knew climbing onto her roof was too much for those old bones, but no one knew who was responsible for her. So no one went. It’s getting harder to keep track of the days, of how many America’s Got Talent episodes we have missed or if Mr. McMillian had his teeth cleaning scheduled for today or tomorrow.
Now we sit on rooftops. We dangle our toes in the water and we wait. Though we’re not sure what for. For someone to come get us? Or for us to go get someone? Or maybe for the water to just go away, go away as quickly as it came. Sometimes we wonder about the nozzle that just stopped working, and whether the fire hydrant was red or yellow, we can’t remember anymore, but then our feet grow numb as the water continues to rise.
Eric Scot Tryon is a writer from San Francisco. His work was recently selected for the Best Microfiction 2023 anthology and has appeared in Glimmer Train, Ninth Letter, Willow Springs, Los Angeles Review, Sonora Review, and elsewhere. Eric is also the Founding Editor of Flash Frog. Find more information at http://www.ericscottryon.com or on Twitter @EricScotTryon.
Lost Balloon 