Essay: I Was All Alone Fleeing the LA Fires. Would Anyone Take Me In?

Residents evacuate their home with their pet in the Pacific Palisades neighborhood of Los Angeles. Qian Weizhong/VCG via Getty Images Facebook Twitter LinkedIn

Bionic woman Jaime Sommers was in a vicious man a mano with a Fembot unleashed by a nefarious scientist when my phone buzzed with a neighborhood group text.

"We are not officially in the evacuation area, which stops at the 101, but the fire is super close so please plan accordingly."

If there is anything to make you feel more like a single, 57-year-old man than lying on your bed on a Wednesday night with two cats, eating the last vestiges of a cheese puffs bag and

watching an old episode of The Bionic Woman, it's the realization that you need to quickly wrangle two cats by yourself and leave your apartment in the middle of an emergency.

As I write this, devastating wildfires were still raging out of control here in Los Angeles County, the worst in its history. The turnaround from relative safety to "please plan

accordingly," with the county website recommending departure if I had pets or small children, was hours, and this was just outside of the evacuation area where such things were happening in

minutes.

Earlier in the day at work in East Hollywood, I discussed the developing catastrophe with colleagues, sharing news of people we knew who had to leave their home. But the situation seemed —

and I hate to admit this — very much happening to somebody else.

Yet the fires kept spreading: The Woodley, Palisades, Hurst, Eaton, Tyler, Olivas and Lidia fires encouraged by the Santa Ana winds were soon joined by the Sunset Fire (aka the "Oh, this is

actually very much happening to me" fire) not far from my Thai Town apartment.