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The Day I Burnt My House Down
>>> Primal Urges
By staff writer
Nathan DeGraaf
September 26, 2007
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Rod: You don't have any stuff from when you were a kid?
Nathan: Not from before 7th grade.
Rod: Why not?
Nathan: My house burnt down in seventh grade.
Rod: Oh
yeah. I remember that. Didn't you start that fire?
Nathan:
Hey man, it happens.
Rod: Yeah. So does herpes. |
More Snippets |
I burnt my house down when I was in 7th grade.
And you think you've
pissed your parents off.
Basically, this story begins and ends with the fact that I am a
moron. Always have been. Always will be. You are what you eat and
all that (it's my column and I don't have to make sense if I don't
want to). And one day I got the bright idea to purchase a couple of
lighters because well, I just wanted to
burn shit 'cause I thought it looked cool (ladies: certain
characteristics of both Beavis and Butthead are inside every man you
meet—you've been warned).
And you know what looked really
cool when I burned my initials into it? The thick plastic covering
underneath the bottom of my bed's box spring at the time.
"Well, Nate, I think we can call this one of your more major
screw-ups."
And you know what went up like a Roman candle
about ten minutes after I figured out how cool it looked when I
burned my initials in to it? The thick plastic covering underneath
the bottom of my bed's box spring at the time.
At first I
tried to put out the rapidly growing fire, but it was rapidly
growing so I didn't have a shot. By the time I realized that
smothering the damn thing would fail, using water was no longer an
option. Let me tell y'all something: if you've ever stood in your
bedroom and watched it go up in flames, you know exactly what it
feels like to mess up royally. I mean, fuck a nasty fight or a
misdemeanor arrest. That's a mild inconvenience compared to the
extreme feelings of remorse and shame that follow burning down the
house in which you and your family live.
As I ran from my
bedroom, I yelled for my 8-year-old sister to call 911 (I was too
busy freaking the fuck out to talk to authority figures at the
time), which she did. The folks on the other end of that line saw
fit to request the services of the local fire department, which,
being local and
not too busy at the time, arrived roughly three minutes later.
I stood outside with my sister as we cried while our house burned.
Shortly after the fire department arrived, my mother arrived from
work (she had been notified of the fire). She was happy as hell that
we were alive but worried about the whereabouts of my brother Jay,
who, a few minutes later, walked over from a neighbor kid's house.
He was easily recognizable by the growing crowd because he was the
only DeGraaf laughing his ass off that day.
He had heard I started the fire.
“Well Nate,” he said as he
put his arm around me, “I think we can call this one of your more
major screw-ups. I mean, forget flunking algebra. This is up there.”
I managed a laugh through my tears.
Now, seeing as how this
website is American, I'm sure some of you would like a happy ending
here. Fortunately for you, I have one.
My mother ended up
marrying the Battalion Chief on Duty of the Fire Department that put
out the fire and they are
still married to this day.
No joke.
Everything
in life
has a way of coming full circle. Until you’re dead. And then
everything kind of just gets full of embalming fluid and whatnot.
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| Nathan DeGraaf
graduated fucking years ago with a BA in Creative Writing from the
University of South Florida, which he still lives near because college
chicks are the best. On weekday evenings, he can typically be found at any one of a number of North Tampa bars. On weekends, he typically cannot be found. When not drinking, fishing, watching sports, or having sex, Nathan likes to read, play the harmonica, and show up for work. Throughout the course of his life, he has been arrested six times because, as his father has often said, "the kid is fucking stupid." |
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