Domestic Fireworks

This article is from the archive of The New York Sun before the launch of its new website in 2022. The Sun has neither altered nor updated such articles but will seek to correct any errors, mis-categorizations or other problems introduced during transfer.

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Bronson and I are discussing all the recent house fires due to candles, space-heaters, and dried-out Christmas trees when we get a call for a “burn major” in East New York.


I roll my eyes. “A charming section of Brooklyn.”


Bronson agrees. “Real Christmasy.” We arrive at a rent-stabilized tenement to find sitting on the front stoop a tall, skinny, punked-out man with short dyed-black hair, pointy black boots covered with buckles and chains, and tattoos on his neck.


“I’m Phil,” he says. His right hand is badly burned, red and shiny, with wet blisters. The pain must be incredible, but Phil shows no signs of it.


“Second degree,” I say, noting the severity of the burns.


“Thumb fully involved,” Bronson says. He asks Phil, “You righthanded?”


“Yeah,” Phil says. He shows no signs of feeling cold, either, though he’s dressed only in a ripped t-shirt, torn jeans, and black leather jacket.


We lead Phil to the ambulance, where I wrap his hand in saline-moistened sterile dressings while Bronson calls in a note to a burn center in Manhattan. Although covering only a small percentage of his body, burns to the hands are considered serious because the scar tissue results in restriction of movement, and thus the patient’s quality of life.


I’m still wondering why he’s not showing any pain. “Adrenaline or drugs,” I think. I sniff, and note the odor of lighter fluid. “What exactly happened?” I ask.


Phil stares at me. “Pyrotechnics.” I’m thinking: “Freebasing cocaine,” but I’m not in the mood for guessing games. “Be more explicit,” I say.


He says he’s a flame-thrower, a street performer working the Battery Park area. I ask him if he knows Masterly, a Chinese-American kung-fu performer I saw once while riding on a unit around Washington Square Park. He says he does. I ask if he brings in as much as Masterly, whom I watched collect $200 for a single 20-minute performance. He says he makes more than that when there’s a good tourist crowd.


“Do you use the name Phil?” I ask. He’s got a jet black goatee and cadaverously white skin.


“Pyromaniac,” he says.


“Okay, that fits,” I nod.


“I usually make $300 a show,” he says.


“How many a day?”


“Depending on the weather, three or four,” he says.


I blink. I make that much in two weeks. “Hire me,” I say. “I’ll be your assistant.”


Phil chuckles. Then holds out his burned hand. “That whore.”


“Who?” I ask.


“My wife. I was practicing a new routine and she got me all riled up. I blew kerosene all over my … hand.”


Bronson laughs. “You can’t blame wrongful flame-throwing on your wife.”


I agree. “Have some self-responsibility.”


Phil shrugs. Then regards his raw hand. “Hey. This hurts. You got any morphine?”


“I was just going to ask you the same thing,” I say.


He pats down his pockets. Comes up broke. “Naw. Nothin’.”


I blink again. “That was a joke, Phil.” He looks at me, and I can see the cogs inside his mind slowly turning, trying to get into gear. Finally, his face lights up in a smile.


“Phil,” I say. “They’ll give you something at the hospital. Now sit still.” I realize the cold air was keeping his skin cold. Now that we’re inside the heated ambulance, he’s starting to feel that burn. I punch a chemical ice pack and place it gently over the gauze.


Bronson gets behind the wheel, and I settle Phil in for the ride into Manhattan. I buckle his seat belt, but almost lose the buckle amid all the other buckles hanging off his jacket.


“Your clothing is complicated,” I say, then ask, “What do you wear while performing?”


He closes his eyes and rests his head against the ambulance wall. “A lycra bodysuit.”


I try to picture shiny clothing that would delineate his skeletal frame, and shudder. But it’s a long ride, and I have to make conversation. I say the only thing I can think of. “Is it flame retardant?”


He opens his eyes, thinking hard. “I’m not sure.” Then closes them again, and rests his head back. “But the chicks love it.”


“You’re married, remember?” I say. He opens his eyes wide and glares at the halogen ceiling lights. “That whore.”



Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician who works on an FDNY ambulance in Brooklyn. This column details her observations and experiences. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.


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