A family faces devastating loss as a fire ravages their home in Pacific Palisades
Pacific Palisades: Just the day before the fire, I was stressing about my job. I hadn’t worked in a while, and things were looking bleak. But I was almost done with a new script that I thought would change everything.
Then, around 11 a.m., my neighbor Alan knocked on my door. He looked worried. “There’s a fire,” he said, pointing to a plume of smoke rising behind my house. I felt a knot in my stomach.
“Are you going to leave?” he asked. Honestly, I didn’t know. I wasn’t the one making the decisions in my family.
I rushed inside to check the news. There was a fire in the hills of Pacific Palisades, and the winds were making it spread fast. I wasn’t too worried at first; we lived in a small Cape Cod-style home in a part of town that usually didn’t face fire threats.
In the 28 years we lived there, we’d only evacuated once, and our home had never been in real danger. I figured we’d be back in a few days, just like last time.
Back then, we grabbed important documents and a few valuables. So, I texted my wife, Wendy, to come home from her job as a therapist. I told her we’d sort out what we needed, and she could head back to work after.
I was supposed to take my daughter, Talia, to the airport, but I told her to take an Uber instead. I assured her everything was fine while I started taking our art off the walls.
Then we got a text from the L.A. Fire Department telling us to prepare to evacuate. Just as Wendy got home, Alan texted again: “Evacuate now.”
Wendy found us a hotel in Marina del Rey. She went back to work, and I headed to the hotel.
It was a bit chaotic there, filled with other evacuees. I bumped into a neighbor, Johnnie, who said a fireman told him this was a “100-year fire.” I smiled, thinking he might be exaggerating, and went to my room to watch the news.
What I saw was worse than I thought. People were abandoning their cars to escape the flames. The high school was on fire, along with a dry cleaner and Gelson’s grocery store. The fire department couldn’t fight it because of the winds; they were just letting it burn.
But the online fire map showed my house was still safe, so I tried to stay calm.
While waiting for Wendy in the lobby, a woman asked where I lived. When I told her the Alphabet Streets, she said, “Oh, your house is gone.” A friend of hers said the “I” street was on fire. Her bluntness made me doubt her words.
At 8:07 p.m., I got a notification that my home fire alarm was going off. I tried to convince myself it was just smoke setting it off.
The next morning, Alan sent me a video from a neighbor who sneaked back onto our street. There was nothing left of our home.
Looking back, I realize I had been in denial, not just that day but for years. I could have moved out of L.A., but I didn’t. I ignored the signs as our city got drier and hotter. What could happen, right?
Well, we lost everything—our financial security, all our belongings, clothes, furniture, photos, and memories. Our home, filled with family moments and celebrations, was gone. Yet, I know I’m luckier than many.
Now, I’m in a hotel, wondering what’s next. I still need to finish that script.
Goodman is a screenwriter and former president of Writers Guild of America West.
