WHY TORX TORVALD BECAME FIRE CHIEF
Most people in the small town of Keisters Ridge know Torx Torvald. He’s the fellow who tunes their cars, fixes the clutches in their pickups, and supplies the odd part for their ancient tractors.
When a mechanical problem surfaced in nearly any vehicle it was taken to Torvald’s Garage. Torx would work on just about anything except Volkswagens. For some reason the workings of a VW Beetle were beyond him. Some people said it was because Torx didn’t understand German. Others said it was because he was still upset about World War II, or maybe World War I. Either way, the VW work was left to Maynard the Hippie.
Maynard was one of those lost generation types who left urban America for a better life in a wilderness commune. He ended up in Keisters Ridge instead.
One evening about nine o’clock Torx and his wife, Hilda, were watching television special. The topic was corruption in corporate America. It was just before a commercial that the telephone rang.
Hilda answered the phone, listened for a moment, then fainted. Ten minutes later, Hilda was sitting on the sofa nursing a glass of Almaden Mountain Rhine wine, and Torx was downtown standing in front of an empty lot. Earlier in the day that lot had been his garage. The Volunteer Fire Department was just packing up the last of their gear and putting it back on the old pumper truck.
For three or four years a major topic of debate in Keisters Ridge had been whether the purpose of the Volunteer Fire Department was to start fires or to put them out. The town was about evenly divided.
To Torx Torvald this had suddenly became a question of Cosmic Proportion. After all, his livelihood was now a pile of smoldering ruins. The worst part of it all was that the garage-now-empty-lot was located right across the street from the Volunteer Fire Department Fire House.
In fact, the term “fire house” began to take on an ominous new meaning.
If Torx had only known what the future held in store. Keisters Ridge is a quiet settlement in the wilds of Middle America. Not much ever happens, so there had been a smattering of interest earlier that day when a light blue Ford van pulled into town. Rather, it was pulled into town. Inside was a Producer, a Reporter, a Cameraman, and a Sound Man. Also inside was a crate of video tape cassettes and a great deal of very expensive camera equipment. The tapes had been made at a Ku Klux Klan rally. The pictures were very good, especially since they showed rocks and bottles being thrown at the camera. When broadcast on a certain prime time news program it was expected that the tapes would cause the show’s ratings to go up five points. Painted on the side of the camera were three small letters; ABC. These were the same letters associated with the titles 20/20 and NIGHTLINE.
The van, at two o’clock that afternoon, had suffered from a bum carburetor linkage which had caused the engine to stop doing its greasy thing.
By the time Torx arrived at the scene of the fire that evening, the van had been converted to a lump resembling a 1952 Hotpoint refrigerator which had been dropped from a bridge. Just before the van “went critical” in the fire, it started to glow red. When the grand moment came the cassettes inside exploded and one sailed clear down the street, landing at he feet of the Producer who had just stepped out of Fred’s Motel and Hungarian Restaurant to see what was going on.
When he finally did find out what was going on, the Producer was not amused. But, then again, neither was Torx Torvald. Curiously enough, the only person who was amused happened to be the Volunteer Fire Chief.
Stanly Nordstom thought the whole thing was very funny. Especially the part were the video cassette flew through the air. All in all, it was a very good fire. It was the best that he had ever set. Being a Volunteer Fire Chief did have it’s advantages. He could set all the fires he wanted and nobody ever suspected him. Of course, he was always the first on the scene, but the public chalked that up to efficiency.
Early the next morning Torx wandered into Fred’s Motel and Hungarian Restaurant. He sat in a booth with his back to a group of four other diners. He was still dazed by the previous evening’s events and didn’t recognize the occupants of the adjacent booth. They were the driver and passengers of the late blue Ford van.
The four were trapped in Keisters Ridge. Their van had been converted into an ash tray, and for their efforts of following the KKK across three states they had exactly one charred video cassette, and it was probably blank. Fifty thousand dollars’ worth of equipment and materials, not including the van, had been reduced to rubble.
In a gloomy tone the Sound Man said, “Probably set by the fire department. Don’t suppose they get much practice around here.”
Torx Torvald was speculating on life without an income. Insurance would help, but, as is usual in these cases, he knew it would not help enough. His ears heard words, they came from the booth behind him, and something, somewhere, clicked. Slowly, like the pinion gear in a Posi-Traction rear end, things began to turn. Teeth meshed, thoughts moved, and suddenly it all came to him.
He stared into his Hungarian Fried Eggs like they were a crystal ball. From their sunny side up depths he could see everything there was to see. The truth burst forth like a 4th of July rocket. He slid out of his booth, turned and looked down at the men from ABC.
At first the four thought they were looking at a man who teetered on the brink. Bent over their table was the owner of the newest empty lot in town. They recognized him for what he was, a victim of circumstances. Then they noticed that his eyes had faint red sparks.
As Torx spoke those sparks grew and when the ABC men invited him to pull up a chair those sparks became deep amber flames.
Torx had seen it. With the perfect clarity of a man newly risen from the grave he saw it all. First he told them about the previous night’s fire. It was Stanly Nordstrom, Volunteer Fire Chief, who had called his home. Then he described how Stanly was the first at the S & M Hardware and Buggy Supply blaze. And then there was the time Stanly actually called in a haystack fire claiming he “happened to be in the neighborhood.” That “neighborhood” was fifteen miles out of town on a dead end road.
For ten minutes Torx spoke. Entranced and appalled the ABC crew listened. Faster and faster the words came. Finally they, too, knew the story. Torx’s firey eyes cooled, the flames disappeared, and he settled back in his chair.
The Producer was the first to understand. He knew before anyone else what they had on their hands. His TV crew had walked into the perfect set up. Sure, they had lost a van full of TV gear, but they had gained the ultimate dream, a five part Special Report. Title- RURAL AMERICA: Small town Corruption.
Like any good television prime time newsman the Reporter did the obvious thing, he went undercover. The Producer called New York, and the Cameraman and Sound Man scrounged equipment.
Two months later they all appeared on TV. Lights burned late in the little town of Keisters Ridge as people stared at their magic boxes. Even the dance band down at the Keister Inn was silent as the bar patrons watched the twenty-five inch RCA color set mounted on the wall over the Jim Beam bottles. The entire population saw Stanly Nordstrom squirm in his wooden office chair when pressed with the tough questions. They heard him say that he never carried matches and that he didn’t even own a candle. They watched as the hidden camera spied on him opening the trunk of his Dodge Dart, and they saw the trunk laden with Coke bottles, kerosene, rags, and igniters. They also saw Stanly try to set fire to the new Ford van sent by the network.
The program’s ratings went up fifteen points. Torx Torvald became a local hero. He was even interviewed by Ted Koppel on ABC’s NIGHTLINE. After that life was never quite the same in Keisters Ridge. Stanly Nordstom went to the State Hospital over in Miller’s Falls. Torx became the new fire chief. Everyone thought he was perfect for the job. Funds were even raised to help purchase a new pumper truck. The old one was accidently destroyed when it caught fire.
But the best thing came about when a movie studio offered Torx Torvald Big Bucks for his life story as a fighter of corruption and injustice. Rumor had it that the movie about him, FLAMING HIGH, might really be filmed in Keisters Ridge.
The only sour note came about a year later. Stanly Nordstrom was released from the hospital. He was cured, certified sane, and generally drugged out. The next day the Keisters Ridge Drive-In burned down.