One Dead Drag Queen Read Free

emergency vehicles. The innumerable fire personnel were forced to add to the noise and confusion as they performed their essential tasks.
    All I remember of the next half an hour is chaos unimaginable. Heat and flames. Water and smoke. Shouts and cries. Fire hoses and darkness. Jury-rigged lights swaying from wobbly poles. A man and woman sobbing loudly hurryingpast, followed closely by a camera crew. I remember thinking the damn reporters could cease their inanity for a minute and do something really important, like help. The mostly silent workers around me only occasionally stopped to stare at the slowly abating conflagration. Periodically a gentle breeze floated in from the lake carrying heavy white smoke drifting in our direction.
    Once a guy next to me said, “Aren’t you Scott Carpenter, the baseball player?”
    I didn’t deny it. He shrugged and we both kept working.
    Fifteen minutes later the fire was two buildings away from the alley, but it was obvious that its progress was almost completely checked.
    They hadn’t found anyone under the debris in quite a while.
    Dellios found me again. “We’re setting up an area for the families and friends.”
    “I’m going to stay here and help,” I said.
    Brandon Kearn and his camera crew rushed up. They crowded toward me. Kearn spoke into the camera, “We have learned that the controversial baseball player Scott Carpenter is present at the scene.” Because I’d come out as an active, openly gay baseball player, I was often referred to as controversial. I seldom felt controversial. More like I was the normal one and the rest of them needed to catch up. I was not in the mood to be harassed.
    Kearn was around thirty, tall, with wavy, black hair, and golden brown skin. I’d met him. He was generally more sensitive and more sensible than most reporters. Then again this was probably the story of a lifetime for him.
    Kearn shoved the microphone toward me. “What can you tell us about the explosion?”
    I exercised my right to remain silent, my right to be moreconcerned with my lover, and my right to turn my back and keep working. They gave up on me and rushed to another instance of disaster and death for more exploitation of those in pain. That all those around me and everyone in the television audience now knew I was there only added to my dislike of sensationalistic journalism.
    Several moments later, a man standing near the edge of the clinic debris shouted. He waved frantically, and along with other rescue workers I rushed to him. People concentrated on hurling debris away from a central spot. I joined the others in picking up items and passing them to the person behind me in line. In front of me I saw a rescue worker holding a hand. It had a wedding ring on it. Not Tom. Five minutes later, they eased a woman out of the mess—I couldn’t tell if she was breathing—and rushed her over to the paramedics. Seconds later she was lost to my sight.
    At no point did anyone say go away. No cops tried to keep only official people present. Mostly we sifted through debris and listened.
    After uncounted minutes of mindless effort, I glanced at the fire. I could no longer see any flickers of blue, red, orange, or yellow. Billowing clouds of smoke did continue, often causing us to stoop as close to the ground as possible. It looked as if this part of the destruction would be spared the flames. If Tom was alive—the most horrible “if” I ever wanted to face—if he was alive, we’d be able to get to him.
    A glance at the perimeter of the scene showed that some degree of order was being brought to the search. Personnel with bullhorns at their sides were being given orders from a central point. I saw five top-level police officers conferring about fifty feet to the right. The firefighters seemed to be working with well-coordinated efficiency.
    Then there was a large yellow flash followed by a deafening boom.

3
     
    I found myself on the ground. Only a few seconds seemed to