From a Wolf to a Sheep

The decision window was closing rapidly, only there was too much sweaty, pasty ash in my eyes for me to see it.

The sound of the approaching firemen was getting louder.

I kept readjusting my grip on the hammer. The sweat was running down my arms and making the handle slick and sticky at the same time.

And I couldn't stop coughing.

They were going to discover me any second.

It was up to me to decide what they would find.

In my mind, I was running and re-running a variety of scenarios.

In one, the hammer does the talking and I trade places with one unlucky fireman. The hat, the full-face mask and the turnout coat become my passport out of the house.

Again and again I watch me as I drive the iron head of the hammer into his chest and force the air out of his lungs. I step behind him and peel off his mask and helmet as he falls. A couple of half-rolls and he's out of his coat and breather.

Clean, elegant, choreographed.

Used to do it all the time.

Used to....

That's the problem with running scenarios in your head.... The guy in my head is the grandson of the one I see in the mirror.

Head Guy might be able to drop a fireman with one hit, but Mirror Guy...?

And then I thought about something Rollin used to say: “Never do the same trick twice in front of the same audience.”

I dropped the hammer.

And then I dropped to the floor.

My coughing stopped and I was on to the next move.

The would check vitals, put me on oxygen and transport: leave the heavy lifting to the E.R..

Manageable, assuming I don't draw the doc whose car I smoked.

I was almost ready.

I jerked my wallet off my hip and quickly stripped out anything with my name on it.

When I was brought in, they were relentless about this. For a time there, the work was steady, if unpredictable. The phone would ring and you had to be ready to drop your real life in a drawer and become whomever, wherever.

We all had a drawer full of wallets and legends to go with each one.

And they didn't stop with the Diners Club and Chargex cards. There were “family” photos and receipts from places you'd never been for things you'd never bought and business cards from people you'd never met. And in case there was a test, you had to memorize a story for each one.

In those days, having an identity was important, but my present circumstances were very different. I couldn't keep them from finding out who I was, but I didn't have to make it easy for them.

I threw the wallet into the corner and distributed the named items into two packets and I slid each between my belt and the waistband of my pants, one over each hip.

And then I quickly transformed myself from wolf into a sheep.

I could see the pale blue beams of their flashlights against the smoke.

And then one of the beams poked its way into the room, pulling a fireman behind it.

I closed my eyes.

First thing he did was yell at me.

And then, like an eight year-old finding a dead snake, he poked me with his flashlight.

More yelling was followed by the laying on of hands and dragging.

At one point, I remember the feel of the sweat-moistened face mask against my skin.

There was a second pair of hands and then I was being carried down the stairs.

With an arm draped over the shoulders of each fireman, it was an easy matter to drop my ID and other named documents into the flames as we made our way down the stairs.

And then, we were outside.