The Fiery Five
Chad W. Lutz
for the Clark Crew
Early estimates said there may have been as many as twenty people pumping gas at the BP on Wilson St. that day. Channel 8 News said thirty. YES! said forty-five. NBC Nightly News said, “a staggering number of victims,” and left it at that. The event was such a big ordeal CNN flew Anderson Cooper in to do a live feed with the survivors. Shepard Smith and Katie Couric came, too. Diane Sawyer declined. Barbara Walters had no comment.
Most eyewitnesses claim seeing six or seven individuals stumble out of the ensuing debris; Gomer Stevin reckoned “eight.” But after months of investigation by FBI task forces and state-appointed tactical teams, officials said there were only five people that survived.
The rest were instantaneously incinerated or caught a ride on the reported thousand-foot-tall fireball that stretched out and up like a hellish arm above the small New York town. According to officials, static electricity caused by uncharacteristically dry summer air resulted in a spark that ignited a pool of gasoline or some other flammable liquid. The fires then spread to a leaking Pump Seven, which detonated, causing the remaining service tanks to explode. There were twelve pumps that went up in total. Over 24,000 gallons of gasoline burned.
Originally, there were six people said to have survived the explosion. Most of the confusion over whether the final count was five or six was based on false witness testimony that went viral on Facebook before the authorities could properly dig through the facts. Matters were made worse when a sixth person stepped forward following the explosion, only to be later discredited on national television when a rather determined news media member found photographs of the woman shopping at the local Meijer on her Instagram account taken at the exact time of the tragedy. The supposed sixth survivor, a preschool teacher named Daisy Keller, was forced to make a public apology for lying about her involvement and sentenced to 100 hours of community service. Keller was quoted as saying she, "just wanted to feel important."
The five tragic heroes who survived the incident included a dentist, a high school junior, a freelance writer, a pharmacist, and a homeless man, who staggered rather miraculously out of the debris reeking of booze.
Police interviewed the high school junior first. Savannah Wainright, age 17, volleyball and track star at North Point High, member of the local bible league. She claimed to have been using the bathroom out back when it happened, and that the blast knocked her off the toilet. This did little for the police because she didn’t actually see what happened, she only heard and felt the explosion. News outlets, on the other hand, had a field day.
The freelance writer was next: Craig Bosely, age 35. Balding. Penchant for Acapulco shirts and Marlboros. Craig wrote lifestyle articles for the local newspaper and a magazine circulated in Ithaca. The writer mentioned in his official statements that "This kind of city drama is the exact type of [expletive deleted] that made me move out to the boonies in the first place." The media tried to spin the comment as a call for local pride. In turn, Craig would become the spokesperson for a local dealership and was handed a key to the city. He was also made the poet laureate, even though he’d only been a restaurant reviewer and had never written a single poem in his entire life. The writer told police he survived thanks to his automobile's solid-steel frame. Paramedics found Bosely inside his vehicle, a ’79 Plymouth, covered in bagels and coffee grounds in the kitchen of the café next door. The writer said he usually doesn't wear his seatbelt, but for some odd reason did that day. Unlike Savannah, Craig Bosely had never been a religious man, but when asked if he felt divine intervention influenced his decision to wear the seatbelt, Bosely had no further comment.
The dentist and the pharmacist were a married couple originally from Long Island referred to as The Olsons. Bill and Mary, ages 45 and 46. No children, no pets, met in high school, got married, and made for the country shortly thereafter. Twenty-year residents of North Point, they got their nicknames partly because they were always on the go, but also because they were rarely seen in public outside of their jobs, and when they were, both went as far out of the way as possible to avoid contact with other people.
Police interrogated the Olsons far more extensively than the other three survivors because of, well, let’s just say the peculiar circumstances surrounding how paramedics found them. I don’t think I could believe what they were wearing myself if I hadn’t witnessed it with my own eyes. In defense of their outfits, Bill and Mary took to Twitter in the days following the explosion saying their clothes were because "#youneverknow #bettersafethansorry."
The final survivor interrogated by police was me, the homeless man, Charles Daubney, age 52, divorced. I’m originally from Cleveland; the one in Tennessee. I lived in New York and traded auto stocks for fifteen years until the bottom of the market fell out after 9/11. I lost my job, I lost my Park Ave. apartment, my wife left me. And just to throw gasoline on the fire, my sister died of cancer. Ever since then I've just been sort of, well, let’s call it “roaming the country,” taking on odd jobs here and there to stay fed.
I’m finally writing my account of what happened because of Craig Bosely. After receiving the key to the city, Craig wrote a now famous editorial for the New York Times called "Life in the Incinerator," which was later lengthened and released as a personal memoir. He's currently on tour promoting the book. It's a good read, if you're into sappy, sensationalized garbage, but I suppose it’s a good read nonetheless. The book sold over 20,000 copies in its first week and is well on its way to becoming a national best seller. In fact, just last week I was walking past a small general store in Dayton, OH, with a TV in the window and there was Craig on some talk show yammering on about what it was like coming-to covered in burnt bagels and smelling like the insides of a gas pump.
While the story is entertaining, and I’ve read his book, Mr. Bosely’s account omits some very crucial details about why the fire started, and I’d like to set the record straight.
The Olsons corroborated what’s in the official report by testifying they spilled an indeterminate amount of gasoline on the ground just prior to explosion. In his book, Mr. Bosely claims to have heard the spark. The news has done the rest.
However, the media should have spent more time on what the Olsons were wearing that day. How this wasn't a crucial talking point baffles me to no end. I'll admit I don't know either of them from Dick or Jane, but from the moment I saw their Smart Car pull up to Pump Four I had a terrible feeling something bad was about to happen. I know a "gut instinct" isn't a valid reason to accuse anyone of something like the deaths of close to twenty people and decimating an entire city block, but I took no comfort in watching Bill and Mary step out of their vehicle dressed like it was May 4, 1970. None, whatsoever. That said, after 9/11, a part of me knows there really isn’t much difference between the country and the city; everyone has problems. The probability of disaster is always there.
I was on my way to North Point's city center when Mother Nature called, so I stopped at the BP just inside town. A few cars were parked at the pumps, including Mr. Bosely's Plymouth and the Wainright's VW. A group of old men in wicker rockers stopped talking as I approached, all eyes on me. I figured they must not get too many outsiders and just kindly nodded in their direction.
The clerk, a man in his thirties, received me as I entered. He wore a thick goatee, thin eye frames, and a bright white BP polo with a green collar. He was gaunt and wasn’t smiling but seemed ready enough to assist me.
"Yeah," I told him, "I need to use the bathroom."
The smile on his face vanished, like it hurt.
“Customers only,” he said, motioning toward the dust on my face.
“I’ll buy something.”
We stood there for a moment considering one another. The clerk sighed and slid me a blue stick-figure man attached to a key.
In walked the Olson’s.
"Morning, Bill! Morning, Mary!" the clerk said as they entered. "Anything I can help you with today?"
"The usual," Bill shot back. "Gas and two javas. One for me, and one for Mary."
"Certainly," said the clerk. "Pump?"
"Four," said Bill, waddling over to the counter with the two hot coffees already in his hands. He set the drinks down and began digging through his Kevlar vest to find what I sincerely hoped was his wallet.
It was.
"What's new?" the clerk said, as he rung up their sale. "Are those the new helmets you was telling me about last week?"
"Indeed," said Bill, with as much brevity as possible. "They just came in the mail yesterday,” and with his flame-resistant, custom-fit orange Kevlar gloves, pulled out two twenties and tapped their edges impatiently on the countertop. Tck tck tck.
"Are they comfortable?" the clerk asked, eyeing the couple over with great admiration.
"They get the job done, Zach, but I don’t have all day. Now, how much do I owe you for the gas and javas?"
"$26.92."
The money exchanged hands. While Zach made the change, I coughed.
"You alright, there?" the clerk asked.
“Huh?”
“Are you alright?”
I made eye contact with Mary through her face mask. I coughed again, felt hot.
“Yeah. Fine.”
“Then be quick about it.”
It? It. It!
I was so busy staring at Mary and Bill and wondering what corresponding level of The Twilight Zone I had stepped into I completely forgot the blue Gumby key on the counter.
"You been in town long, sir?" the attendant asked with a suspect leer in his eye.
“Nope. The opposite. I just arrived. I've been working for Ted Tollefson?" I paused a moment to see if they recognized the name. Bill started beaming and said, "Ted Tollefson? What a small world! Mary and I were just at Ted’s this morning. Ted’s got the best deals on fertilizer.”
“He does,” the clerk interjected, and everybody nodded appreciatively.
Then Bill said, “Why we just came from Ted’s; picked up about twenty pounds of top grade for one of our experiments. One hundred and fifty dollars. Can you believe that? The same weight goes for $230 at market…at least!" Bill turned and gave his wife a look I don't think I'll ever forget.
"I helped move that manure," I said proudly, attempting conversation, but the clerk moved me along with an obvious clearing of his throat.
"Quick and the key," he reminded me again, "The doors lock automatically behind you. And I’m dead serious when I say I don't feel like calling Frank to pry open the crapper again, so, please, don't let it shut without the key."
Around back of the building, I found two doors in serious need of re-painting and laced in graffiti. Sun-faded lettering on one said, "Genlemen" without the T. The other, "FEMALEs," painted in black on a somewhat-new-looking slab of cardboard. It was held up with duct tape. The inside wasn’t much better. Let’s just say I made good time.
While I went about my business, all I could think about was what that man Bill had said.
"We bought twenty pounds of fertilizer for our experiments."
My instincts were malignant. I vaguely remembered the reports of Timothy McVeigh and his infamous fertilizer truck bomb. But, I was too amused and terrified by the actual sight of the couple dressed in fire-resistant body suits to think clearly. I trust people and always have. The same way Ted Tollefson trusted me around his cattle. Small town/big city; weird people live everywhere. I've always held that if a person judges someone else based on how they appear without getting to know them, then that same person must still believe the Earth is flat based on how it looks out their front door. The question is, does that logic stand up to twenty pounds of fertilizer?
The Olson’s were already back outside and pumping gas into their Smart Car when I rounded the corner of the station. Bill was sitting in the driver's seat, while Mary stood watching the fuel gauge and price tickers click as the tank filled.
As I walked through the station door, a middle-aged man was getting out of his own vehicle to pump gas. I can clearly remember his wide stride, almost a strut, getting out of his massive car and the swing of his right arm back as he shut the Plymouth's door. He was wearing an unbuttoned yellow Acapulco shirt covered in red palm trees that was nearly soaked the entire way through with sweat.
I kindly placed the key back on the counter and thanked the clerk. He ignored me, thumbing an NRA magazine.
The BP had a walk-in beer freezer, and the air inside made my sweat-soaked shorts stick to my legs. Most of my options were domestics (Budweiser, Coors, Miller, Pabst). I grabbed a random six-pack and exited the freezer. I heard someone yelling from the parking lot as I exited the freezer and looked out the front window to find Bill red in the face and yelling at Mary, who looked like she was ignoring most of what Bill was shouting. I couldn't for the life of me understand why Bill was yelling so much, and so angrily, considering how mild-mannered —weird, yes, but mild-mannered — the man seemed in person. But when I saw Mary run over to the trash can dabbing a wet spot on her Kevlar vest and grab half a roll of paper towels, I figured she must’ve spilled gas in the car and Bill was overreacting. She got back into the car yelling at Bill in her own frenetic way, and the two began pulling out of the station.
That's when I looked to my right and found Craig Bosley, the media's Wonder Boy, climbing back out of his Plymouth to rerack the nozzle and twist his gas cap back into place before slapping the hatch shut and climbing back into his car. But not before he flicks a smoldering cigarette to the ground.
Craig never mentions this in any of his interviews. It doesn't appear in his book, either. The way the writer paints the portrait, one of the Olsons causes the explosion by dragging their feet on the ground. Mary admitted to authorities she spilled the gasoline and that it might have been possible she collected enough static electricity to ignite the pump, but her testimony doesn't add up with what Mr. Bosely claims. Mary Olson vehemently argues to this very day that she and her husband were halfway onto Wilson St. by the time the explosion happened. Forensics haven't been able to determine whether The Olsons were parked next a pump when the station exploded or if they were actually on the street as they claim, but something tells me if a gas station explodes and you're two feet from ground zero, odds are you aren't walking away to write books or experiment with manure.
I’ve always wondered what the media would say if they ever found out it wasn’t static electricity but Craig that started the fire, and with a cigarette of his own, no less. I have that cigarette, a Marlboro; it was the first thing I saw when I came-to, and I’ve had it sitting on the desk next to me this entire time: a short, blackened stump of filter. I’ve kept the cigarette as a token, in hopes Craig would come forward, but after hearing on the radio Paramount was optioning “Life in the Incinerator,” as a feature-length film, I started writing and, like Craig Bosely, haven’t stopped. I guess we’ll find out in a couple of hours when the mail lady stops by to pick up the Outgoing Mail and sends the cigarette, along with two copies of this testimony, care of the county crime lab and Craig Bosely himself. The two should reach their destinations at roughly the exact same time.
Anyway, right now I’ve got to finish up some expense reports; I’m an employed man again. After the initial wave of publicity hit, and word got out that I was jobless and homeless, offers for new jobs came on like freight trains. I now work as a local tax preparer for a D-1 university in the small town of Blacksburg, Virginia. Some of you may know the place as the collegiate home of the Hokies. One, Two! One, Two! Hokie Hokie Hokie Hy!
It isn't anywhere near like New York City, but I really get the feeling nothing bad ever happens in Blacksburg, maybe an occasional missed midterm or dopey drunken decision, and that’s about it.
And since I’m a university employee, I get discounts on tuition. After all these years, I’m finally going back for my master's in accounting. I think it'll help take my mind off things. "Lend me some perspective," as they say.
Lately, I’ve been having dreams where that Wainright girl melts to the toilet or that I'm being consumed by fire. One night I had a dream where a student stormed into a classroom and shot dozens of people, killing several. The doctors assure me that’s normal. PTSD. I keep telling them it’s more than that. It’s almost like a feeling, a premonition, but that’s crazy.
The memories of what happened in North Point fade more with each passing day. The Olsons still live in North Point; Craig has obviously moved on. Savannah Wainright goes to school here in Blacksburg. She’s a freshman. I’ve seen her on campus a couple of times, but we never acknowledge each other fully for fear of bringing up too many bad memories. And that’s good enough for me. No one should ever have to live their life in fear. You never know what’s going to happen. That’s all part of it.
I just know 2007 is going to be a good year.
I can feel it.
Chad W. Lutz (they/them) is a speedy, bipolar writer from Akron, Ohio. They graduated from Mills College in Oakland, California, with their MFA in creative writing in 2018. Their first book, For the Time Being (2020), is currently available through J.New Books. Other recent works appear in Anodyne Magazine, Final Girl Bulletin Board, Half and One, and Hunger Mountain Review.