Chapter V: Alistair and the Great Fieldhouse Fire

A hundred dollars is not a hell of a lot of money. But when you’re homeless, unemployed, an ex-con, drug addict or psychotic, Nolan’s rent made Morgenthau seem like Park Avenue real estate. Making money was hard, but to Alistair Reagan, it came easy. A plumber, electrician and all around handyman in a past life, Alistair knew how to disassemble anything and rebuild it. He knew how things worked and could see that there were often simple solutions to the campus’ numerous annoyances. In many ways, he made our uncivilized commune somewhat bearable.

During my second year at the college, after the worst winter in Morgenthau’s history finally came to an end, a short-lived, unseasonably warm spell blew through the region and began to breathe a sense of life back into the abandoned campus. With the temperatures still warm enough to walk around at night, a sudden feeling of potential energy surged through the entire campus. A sense of such possibility hadn’t been felt around here since the student body had stormed the administration building during the infamous protests in 1979.

Even though the streets were not safe at night, a group of residents began to congregate in the foyer of the main residence hall. Grover, The Steve and I stood in the alcove along with Doobie and Herschel Hook Hands, both of whom wouldn’t survive the unseasonably cold spell that would immediately follow that warm night.

The snakes in the quadrangle were unusually busy for this time of year. Normally the snakes stuck to the overgrown jungle of the quad, but that night, several could be seen slithering towards the center of campus. Even the addicts from the woods were becoming increasingly noisy, as their whispery conversations became audible over the still, balmy air.

For a brief minute, everything fell silent. The maniacs in the basement paused their incessant wailing. The water dripping from the leaky pipes in the bowels ceased. The sounds of the highway, the ambulances in the Tri-Towns and the roar of the commuter trains vanished. We knew that something was coming. I could immediately feel the oxygen being sucked into the center of the campus. It was seconds before we heard sharp crackling sounds emanating from the plaza where the clock tower—which had only been correct twice a day for more than five years—suddenly became illuminated with a bright, flickering orange glow. None of these things enticed more excitement in this hapless batch of homeless rejects than the sound of Alistair’s rebel yell as it soared over the big ruckus.

Damn the snakes and the addicts, I thought as I ran down the quad path through the big arch at the library. As the other residents turned the corner and joined me, our faces were frozen and numbed by the unfathomable sight before us. Our eyes were shocked out of their dim focus by the brightest blaze of light we had ever witnessed.

On that night, Alistair Reagan turned the Fulton Fieldhouse, a NCAA-quality basketball court and event center, into a raging inferno, shooting flames high up into the night sky, bringing an added hour of daylight to a campus that had not had working electricity since it was permanently closed.

As the fire raged on, Alistair danced around the edge of the flames like an African tribesman, shaking and moving his body with such expression that I had not seen in a long time. Morgenthau had the ability to suck the vibrancy of life out of someone. It sucked the color from paintings, the harmony from music, the scents from the air and the warmth from the sun. On that night, the colors were so hot, so vibrant, that even Winston, the artist who painted his murals on giant canvases in the library, could never have dreamed of such imagery.

As Alistair danced around his finest creation, The Professor and Kendra sat in rusted, folding chairs, clapping their hands and laughing their asses off. I had never heard The Professor laugh before, and I never heard him offer more than a sarcastic chuckle for the rest of his life. He puffed big white plumes of smoke from his pipe as he chanted “Bravo! Bravo!” In the tunnels and the basements, the maniacs began to holler in full chorus. Alistair echoed their insane banter with wild yelps and coyote-like howls. This was his moment. For more than twenty years, Alistair had been replicating his euphoria with a ceaseless variety of artificial substances that only made him feel more alone and more helpless. This was the first time he had truly felt alive in that long a time, and god damnit, he fucking loved it.

Of course, Alistair was no pyromaniac without a cause. All he wanted to do was to collapse the tall structure to the ground so that he could pillage the building for copper pipe. He had deliberately set a series of fires near all the critical supports of the field house. You could not have had a more professional demolition if you hired the same people that imploded Veteran’s Stadium.

The day after the fire, all of us slept in, as the euphoria of the previous night had provided for a deep, pleasant rest. As the temperatures reverted back to normal, Alistair was digging through the still-smoldering rubble and began to harvest his treasure. He would easily be able to salvage enough copper to pay his rent for the next year, but instead he traded in his bounty for three months rent and a celebratory bonanza of booze, heroin and a cheap lay.

Despite his frivolous addictions, Alistair was one of the least selfish members of the Morgenthau community. Since his arrival at the campus, he had been using his skills to help us, making a series of small, yet sizeable improvements. He had found a way to tap into the water supply from the university’s fire hydrants, which by law, had to remain active in the event of a fire. The fieldhouse had lit up like a box full of tissues, and it burned out just as quickly. By the time anybody could have possibly reported the fire in one of the Tri-Towns, the blaze was effectively contained by the cunning preparations of Alistair himself. He had been very careful; the last thing he wanted was for the woods to catch fire, which would undoubtedly draw immediate retribution from the addicts.

The running water allowed us to drink, cook and occasionally–but not frequently–bathe. Most importantly, he had rigged up a primitive sewer system, whereby a leaking pipe emptied into a bucket that washed away the waste into a makeshift cesspool at the bottom of the uninhabitable administration building. The man was a goddamn genius. He genuinely loved everyone who he knew at the campus. The only problem was that he loved the drugs just as much as he did us. As a result, he died of a broken heart.