Fire hazard

There is this story that I have to tell; a story which, I have hope, will go down well. It had me frustrated ... quite angry and vexed, wondering what anyone can expect next. We hear on the TV, on the radio, that during this drought, there are things we should know: we must conserve water - we all have to try not to waste the little WASCO has standing by.
But there is an aspect that’s even more grave than watching the water we have to save: it’s the danger - inherent with all the dry grass - of starting bush fires ... if it comes to pass that we are not careful with matches and such; or burning our garbage when it gets too much. The Fire Chief says you are breaking the law, if you do not give them some notice before you set any fires. You first have to write and an officer will turn up on to your site to see if it’s safe; if he gives the all-clear, then you can proceed, but with maximum care.
I live on a hill where there are lots of trees. With the elevation, there’s always a strong breeze. For months, with the sun blazing down from the sky, it has caused all the leaves to just dry up and die. All around my house ... in the whole neighbourhood, wherever you look ... it’s dry grass, leaves and wood.
If you understand, and the scene is all set, I’ll try to explain why I got so upset. In a house, east of me, lives a single young man, professing to be a Rastafarian. I’ve known him for years, and he’s always been a person who likes his environment clean. He sweeps out his yard, puts his trash in a pile, then leaves it on the ground for a very long while; all that is just dandy, if he’d bury the stuff, or take it to the dump, when the load’s big enough.
He does neither of those ... he believes that he cleans when he’s burnt all the stuff (must have arsonist genes). So, once in a while - two or three times a year - thick, billowy smoke rises into the air. The big problem is, the breeze blows from the east - so I get quite a lungful ... that’s saying the least. Bronchitis, lung cancer, they’re all at my door, and with nameless ills which might not have a cure. Whenever I meet with this firebug out on the street, I never fail to give him a shout.
“Hey, John (not his right name),” I stopped him one day, “take me for a herring? Lots of smoke, yesterday.”
“Well, what do you want?” his locks shook on his head. “Do you think that I’ll eat up the garbage instead?”
And so it went on. He just paid me no mind ... just kept right on torching what grass he could find. I tried to appeal to whatever good sense might exist in a head that was almost as dense as a rock made of granite, but to no avail. His stubbornness always made sure I would fail.
I could bear it at first, but now, we’ve got this drought and there’s danger whenever this man fools about. We hear stories of fires all over the place, bush fires which ravage all parched, empty space ... it isn’t just about my lungs anymore, - my house could burn down, from the roof to the floor.
Last Sunday, I woke to the foul, burning smell - I was sure that I’d died and had woke up in Hell. I couldn’t believe it! He was “cleaning” again ... and it was over two months since we’d had any rain! This was the last straw; I went straight to the phone. I was going to show him I was not quite alone.

With strong indignation, I call 911. Only to find the fun just had begun. The answering voice sounded sleepy and mad ... I had woken somebody, and he wasn’t glad.
“Hello!” said a voice; my reception was poor.
“Is this Fire Service?” I wasn’t too sure, so oozing with charm, I crooned into his ear. If I’d dialled wrongly, it could be anywhere.
“You want Fire Service?”
Well, that much was true.
“Then, it’s Fire Service. How can I help you?”
“I’m on Pavee Hill and you might like to know: someone’s burning his garbage a few houses below. I know it’s illegal to do such an act without letting your office know before the fact. It’s causing a nuisance; can someone come and see, before it burns down every single tree?
“I’m also afraid that it gets out of hand, and completely lays waste to my house and my land.’
“I’ll send up two engines, if things are so bad. We’ll arrest him and fine him. The man must be mad to ignore all the warnings we’ve put on the air. That’s Lucians for you: they’re all crazy down here.’
“I don’t think you need engines ... just send up two men, so he’ll throw water on and not do it again. I’m sure that just warning him will be enough. He looks big and mean, but he isn’t so tough. If firemen tell him he must change his ways, from now he’ll think twice, before starting a blaze.”
“No engines, you say? Sounds to me like a waste of time, going to this firebug’s place. Have you spoken to him? Will he listen to you? In lots of these cases, the offenders do. If it’s trouble he wants, then you shouldn’t call us. It’s Police that you want; they will stop all the fuss.”
“But it’s fire he’s set - isn’t that what you do? Douse the dangerous fires reported to you? The man’s not a crook; he’s just burning some grass. The cops just might shoot him ... don’t forget - he’s a Ras.”
“Well sir, it’s like this - since the man’s bugging you, as far as I see, there’s just one thing to do: deal with him by yourself, call the Police instead, or since it is still early, just go back to bed.”
He hung up. I don’t get it; I still don’t understand how things function at all, here in our native land. I confess that I finally went back to bed. I don’t want the man’s death hanging over my head.
You’ll say I should face him, but you don’t realize that I lied: he’s big, mean and almost twice my size.