By: Madison Ortiz
I clocked in early today at 4:50 a.m. instead of the usual 5.
I’ve been up all morning after waking up around midnight to an emergency alert
Ordering me to “EVACUATE NOW.”
“FALSE ALARM” a few hours later,
After all of Santa Maria had been thrown into hysteria.
I open up the restaurant alone.
The televisions in the dining room are both permanently turned to the local news.
The fires are an eerie glow in the darkness I usually find comfort in.
Why does the news have to keep replaying that awful footage of horses burning to death?
It’s only day four, but I know that I am witnessing something awful.
People come to my hotel in search of rest and clean air,
Shopping for clothes other than the ones they evacuated in.
They check the progress of the fire on their iPhones.
“Three blocks away,” an elderly woman informs me as I pour her a cup of decaf.
“Two blocks away,” as I clear her plate.
“One,” as I tell her that I will not accept payment for this meal.
Silence, as I imagine what it would be like to watch my home go up in flames from a hundred miles away.
Hope turns to ash in my throat,
Suffocating me as I pull her in close to cry on my waffle-batter stained chest,
Knowing that the dust will never settle quite the same way again.
(Server, Pismo Beach, CA)
