On Saturday evening, the former Rock Island Livestock Auction Barn burned to the ground. Investigators have determined the fire appears to have been intentionally set. At the time I'm writing this, the culprit has yet to be found.
It wasn't me. I've got an alibi, promise.
I was on my way to a trivia night in Davenport, and had just stopped for a pre-game bite at Qdoba on Kimberly Road. "Whoa," I said to the open air as I got out of my car and saw the plume of black smoke billowing from the southern horizon. "That's a big fire."
I didn't realize at the time HOW big it was. I assumed something was ablaze just a few blocks away, not a few MILES away. It wasn't until I was leaving the restaurant and back in my car that I realized the scope and distance of the massive fire. This caused a couple panicked moments of wondering if it was my neighborhood (it wasn't.) Then it caused a couple downright stupid moments of me trying to check my phone while driving (not advised. Also see: illegal.)
Then it was back to panic when I realized the car behind me was doing the same thing and appeared more concerned about the growing fire than my rear bumper, which he allllmost had a blind date with before my honking made him look up and slam the brakes. Of course, the guy in front of me then thought I was honking at HIM for some reason, which caused him to wave hello with his middle finger. It was a good time.
Alibis aside, though, there's a number of reasons why I wouldn't make a good arson suspect. For one, fires are scary. I like a good campfire, but only provided someone ELSE is in charge of it. Responsibility has never been my strong suit, and I've seen too many horrible stories of devastating infernos that can be traced to one idiot who didn't put out a campfire correctly. No thanks. I don't need that kind of pressure in my life.
Also, I've always really liked that auction barn. I've never been inside, but it was a cool building from the exterior. Back in the days when I may or may not have been partially responsible for bringing rave culture to the Quad Cities, we even looked into renting that place once for a party. But as memory serves, a rather confused gentleman had to gently explain to a couple of aspiring immature entrepreneurs that putting a thousand teenagers in a wooden building full of hay and manure probably WASN'T a top-notch idea.
But mostly, I'd make a lousy arsonist because I wouldn't be able to hide the crime well. All they'd have to do is listen and follow the sneezing. I've suffered from hay fever my entire life. And, as it turns out, it's especially bad when the hay in question is aflame.
As I drove home after trivia that night, the fire had been mostly contained, but the smoke was pretty terrible. I don't live especially close to the auction barn, but even my Rock Island neighborhood was looking like foggy London when I got home. "Uh oh," I mumbled as I pulled into my alley, "this isn't gonna end well."
It takes approximately six steps to get from my garage to my back door. I was outside for less than thirty seconds. But the simple act of walking those six steps and unlocking my back door was enough to launch my allergies into overdrive. I was sneezing before I even made it in the house. Thirty minutes later, I was still at it. Even the dual defense line of Claritin and Flonase were no match for the cooties in the air that night.
I can't count the number of times I've started off the day with a 21-sneeze salute to the morning. There's just no way to be cool while you're sneezing. I've known people with the uncanny ability to stifle sneezes and just make a little "fft" noise under their breath. That's not a life skill I've been blessed with, and also seems like a nifty way to burst your eardrums and shoot your eyeballs clean across the room. When I sneeze, it's an ugly, unctrollable "ra-FLUGHEOOOOOOO" sound that no one on Earth wants to hear, let alone me.
There was once a time when I could almost make uncontrollable allergies seem charming. One sneeze is perfectly acceptable. Two or three in a row can be cute. Ten is annoying. But when you sneeze twenty times in a row, it transitioned into comedy gold. Those were the before-times. Then COVID hit. Today, we're all a little bit more hyperaware that the air we're breathing is being shared by everyone else in the room. If I go into a sneezing fit nowadays, the best I can hope for is a nervous giggle that says, "you're silly. Please don't let your silliness kill me."
These genetics were lovingly handed down from my mother, who also suffers the same crazy allergies as me. Growing up, mornings at my house must have been SUPER fun for my poor dad, sitting at the breakfast table while mom and I traded off rapid-fire assault sneezes while squabbling over control of the tissue box.
Allergies or no, though, the fire at the auction barn was BAD. Remember how fast I dashed into the house that night? Just the three seconds I had my back door open was enough to cause the air purifier in my living room to kick on. It could smell what the Rock was cooking that night, and it was apparently toxic.
So to whoever started that blaze, you suck. People could've been hurt. You took down one of the coolest buildings in Rock Island, cost the city a ton of time and manpower, caused the entire west end to lose power, and presumably made the whole town reek like a bonfire. I couldn't tell, because I spent the night looking especially sexy with a red face, watery eyes, and Kleenex shoved up both nostrils while checking my security cameras to ensure no cows were milling about in my yard.
I was, however, looking for something to do that night, and I guess you solved that dilemma for me. Gee, thanks.
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