Safety first, and I have to smile.
The group hops to it, extruding volunteers through a nonobvious Brownian motion,
and before long all of Tony's gear is spread out on the lawn. Tony then crouches
down and carves a shallow bowl out of the snow. He tips the foam-keg in, then
uses his gloves to sculpt out a depression. He slops fix-bath on top, then fills
his foam-and-snow bowl with the last of the kero.
"You all ready?" he says, like he thinks he's a showman.
Most of us are cold and wish he'd just get it going, but Tony's the kind of guy
you want to give a ragged cheer to.
He digs the snow out from around the bowl and holds it like a discus. "Maestro,
if you would?" he says to Daisy Duke, who uses long fireplace match to touch it
off. The thing burns like a brazier, and Tony the Tiger frisbees it square into
the middle of the porch. There's a tiny *chuff* and then all the kero seems to
catch at once and the whole place is cheerful orange and warm as the summer.
We pass around the marshmallows and Tony's a fricken genius.
#
The flames lick and spit, and the house kneels in slow, majestic stages. The
back half collapses first, a cheapie addition that's fifty years younger than
the rest of the place. The front porch follows in the aftershock, and it sends a
constellation of embers skittering towards the marshmallow-roasters, who beat at
each other's coats until they're all extinguished.
As the resident crip, I've weaseled my way into one of the kitchen chairs, and
I've got it angled to face the heat.
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