Author's Note:
This story was originally posted on February 3, 2023. It contained some inaccuracies related to the date of the event. It was embarrassing because I used a Wikipedia source that used the wrong date. While I was at it, I corrected more than a few other errors within the story.
Last night (February 11, 2023), the CBS program 48 hours did a story on the fire. It was a rerun and probably appeared for the first time in 2018. I don't recall having seen the story when it originally aired but it accomplished some of the same things I wanted to bring to life.
From the Original Story
I want to state that this story really made me pause and think about how any relatives, friends, co-workers, or simply residents of the communities heavily impacted by horrible event might feel in reading this story. While I finished the story 3 months ago, I opted to submit it timed to be close to the anniversary date.
This story is fiction and not based on any known persons or subsequent events. The event - the Station Nightclub Fire - itself is not. Thousands of peoples' lives were changed or destroyed by the fire and only their personal strength allowed them to proceed in life. As I worked on the story, I stopped multiple times to just think about those in attendance who planned a wonderful night out but finding a series of bad decisions left many from this wonderful metropolis in mourning.
The event I am writing about is the Station Club fire on February 20, 2003, in West Warwick, Rhode Island. It caused the death of one hundred people and more than two hundred very serious injuries. Many suffered terrible burns too horrible to describe in this story. Sadly, it was an avoidable disaster had the club owner, club manager, band manager, and stagehands communicated the planned use of pyrotechnics. To this day, the owner and manager insist that they did not know about the planned use of pyrotechnics and would have refused if asked.
How could you deal with the loss of a loved one, or how could you help your partner if they were severely injured and disabled, or you survived and either disfigured or disabled.
This story is fiction involving a modest, somewhat introverted man who arrived at the Station Club two hours early and met a young woman - full of life and love - the girl of his dreams before the fire started.
Please be patient - it is going to take 20 years for the story to come to a climax.
February 20, 2023 - West Warwick, Rhode Island
I should not have come back to this place. If the weight of my life isn't shitty enough, I gathered all my strength, both physical and emotional, and decided to attend the memorial service for the twentieth anniversary of the Station Club night club fire near my home in Rhode Island. Until that night, I was an average nerd working for a living with two very close friends from college, an occasional girlfriend but never close to a fiancé, and some good co-workers that I hung out with after work. My name is Grant Johnston, and I am 45 years old. I had been married years back to my wife Gloria, but she had passed away seven years ago. We had been married for six years and she, like me, had disabilities from the fire. In her last years she was homebound. That night, she was much closer to the stage than me. Her scarred lungs made every breath miserable until her death. It was hard, but I did love her. In part, because we shared that event. No, I do not recall seeing her there, probably because I was focused on someone with whom I felt an instant connection.
Perhaps a better way to describe my life with Gloria was that we truly cared for each other, knowing that our physical and emotional scars would never heal. I tried to make her comfortable during her final year and mourned when she passed. I did have a two-year relationship with a girlfriend afterwards, but she eventually realized she could not live with my physical deformities. I was sad but understood. I was not alone with my handicaps in our area as you will learn as this story goes on. I will start by telling you a little about me.
January 19, 1978 - February 20, 2003 - West Warwick, Rhode Island
There is not much to say about me from the day of my birth (yep, that's January 19, 1978) to the day of the horror. I was born into a decent middle-class family with a mother and father who did everything they could to ease our burden in life. We were not rich. My father worked for the city keeping track of building permits, work progress, inspections, and working with the planning department on zoning changes. As well developed as the area was, there were few significant zoning changes in and around the city of Providence. My mother was an assistant at the public library - not high on the pay scale but it did contribute to our ability to make ends meet. After all, there are three of us kids. I am the only boy and I have an older sister Maggie and a younger sister name Carol.
We grew up in Barrington, a suburb of Providence, Rhode Island. I was a pretty good student and when it came to college, I wanted to get free of my hometown. My grades were good, and the University of Connecticut accepted me, gave me a half-ride scholarship, and waived any out of state fees.
In Storrs, life for male students was great if you were accepted into a fraternity. To gain admission, it was better to have a family member who was in that fraternity or get multiple recommendations from members of that fraternity. Oh, and it was even better that you had lots of spending cash or if your family has a cabin in Vermont or Maine on a ski-slope so the guys can "crash" there and seduce sorority girls.
My friend from high school got into one of a middle of the pack ones the year before and he partied every night (or so he said). I went through 'rush' and thought I had a decent chance and did receive a bid. With a bid, they presented a sheet reflecting likely first-year costs for participation and I knew from the start that I would have to turn it down. While the school waived out of state tuition based on my grades, I could barely afford my first-year room, board, and tuition. Get rid of my car? What car? I took a bus to Storrs and back home for holidays. Beer money? First, I was only eighteen and a straight arrow. Dating? These girls wanted fancy dinners out, even dinner at a Taco Bell and a movie was out of my price range. Please do not get me wrong, my life in Storrs was not bad, I loved the school and my friends but did not have an active social life other than an occasional 'hang out' with a young woman who was not into the 'Greek' scene.
Now here is where I would like to tell you that I grew up and am now six feet, three inches tall, with an athletic build and when I walk into a bar, all the single women swoon at the thought of taking me home. That is what I would like to say but, instead, I will tell the truth! I was five feet, ten inches tall when this story begins, a slight beer gut and I earned every added pound on my body. I have a face that my mother loves, and a warm personality that does take a few encounters before it reaches the surface and another five or six before you know me well enough to have a solid friendship. I am also the guy that 'runs to the store' to get you a quart of milk or let someone cut in line in front of me if they need to hurry. Once I even told a highway patrol officer that, yes, I was speeding. I thought he would appreciate my honesty and he did give me a "good-citizen-certificate" that cost me $220 for 15 mph over the speed limit.
