Saturday, Feb. 22, 2003 - 6:06 pm
Friends Mourn Friends in Nightclub Fire By HELEN O'NEILL .c The Associated Press WEST WARWICK, R.I. (AP)- The worst part was not the smell of burning flesh or the horror of the stampede. The worst part is not even the guilt and confusion he feels at surviving. For David Fravala, the worst part is the names. They swirl through his head, round and round and round. Steve. Dina. Keith. Jason. Andrea. Tommy. They're not just names, of course. They're faces, smiles, memories so fresh and raw and real that they can't even be truly considered memories yet. The names of the missing. Names Fravala knew as well as those of his own family, because they meant as much as his own family, this hardy bunch with their leather jackets and crewcuts who savored their Budweisers and their rock 'n' roll and jokingly called themselves ``children of the 80s.'' Every night after work Fravala, 36, would ramble down from his house about a mile away to hang out with the gang at The Station, the nightclub with lavishly painted outside murals (including portraits of Elvis, Ozzy Osbourne, Jimi Hendrix) and the dark, glittery ceiling within. Monday night karaoke, Tuesday night darts, the weekend concerts - Fravala went to them all. Often he was joined by 24-year-old Brandon Fravala, his best friend and nephew whom he loves like a brother. It was David who introduced Brandon to music, who indoctrinated him with rock, who introduced him to the heavy-metal band they both considered one of the best, Great White. They trekked to concerts all over New England together. They wouldn't have missed Thursday night's performance for anything. And so they met up at The Station after work: David as a mortgage broker in West Warwick, Brandon as a truck driver in Westerly, 32 miles away. They brought along about 15 friends. All the regulars were there: Steve the burly ``nothing-gets-past-me'' bouncer; Andrea, his girlfriend the ticket-seller; Dina, the waitress with the seriously short hair and the ever-flowing tray of shot glasses; Keith, who plays bass guitar with Fathead; Jason, a long-haired rocker; and Tommy, whose generosity was as big as his voice. ``Here Frav,'' he'd boom, buying another round. ``I'll get this one for you.'' The nightclub was far more crowded than usual because of the popularity of the band - a bit too hot and crowded for David, who has asthma. Just before the band launched into its first song, ``Desert Moon,'' he asked Jason to watch his beer while he stepped outside to get some fresh air. Standing in the snow he says, ``I witnessed hell.'' Flames leaping through the roof, piercing screams, and then a thunderous blast of smoke and fire and bodies crashing through the doors. More than a day later, the speed with which everything unfolded still seemed unreal. Brandon, David thought as he was flung back by the blast. ``BRANDON,'' he yelled. Inside, Brandon and his roommate, Chris Sosta, had been inching their way to the front of the stage when the concert - and the inferno - began. They saw the flames, ignited by a pyrotechnics display, lick the side of the egg crate-like soundproofing wall behind the band. For an instant they thought it was part of the act. But the flames were already raging through the roof and the ceiling was collapsing and a great wall of smoke was rolling over the crowd. People screamed and shoved and grabbed each other, crying ``Go, go, go! Where are the exits? Where are the doors?'' But they couldn't see and they couldn't breathe and people were tripping and piling up on each other and jumping out of windows. Brandon was shoved one way, Chris another, swept along in the panic and the flames. Brandon tripped over someone, a young woman. He felt a metal bar in front of him and he clung to it. People were piling up on top of him, pinning down his legs, digging into his ribs. He could feel the heat searing his feet: he had lost his shoes when he fell. His throat and eyes burned. He clung to the bar with all his might, sure that if he let go he would die. Briefly he thought about David and Chris. But mostly he just pictured his 4-year-old son. Keep your head, he told himself. Stay calm. That is the only way you will ever see Nick again. Suddenly a glimmer of light. A cop, eyes filled with fear, was yelling at him: ``Give me your hand, I'll pull you out.'' Brandon let go of the bar and was dragged out into the snow. They told him later he was the last person pulled out alive. The collapse of the nightclub was so fast that it was hard for survivors to immediately comprehend what they had survived. As screams were replaced by sirens, they stumbled through the night, Brandon among them, crying out the names of their friends and their loved ones. David, where are you? Has anyone seen David? At the other side of the parking lot, David also was calling. ``Please say Brandon got out,'' he begged firefighters, over and over. ``Please tell me he got out.'' Rescuers set up a triage center at a nearby inn, and David scanned the burned and broken bodies looking for his nephew. Firefighters prevented him from climbing back into the wreckage of the building. Eventually he found Chris, badly hurt, his ribs crushed in the stampede, but alive. And he spotted Brandon. Uncle and nephew don't remember how long it took to finally find each other: Was it minutes or an hour? They just remember their tearful embrace beside the smoldering remains of the place they loved, and breaking down as they shared what they knew about their friends. Jessica: She got out. Brian: He's OK. But Dina, I don't know about Dina. No one had seen Steve or Andrea, either. Tommy and Keith were missing, too. They repeated the names, checking and rechecking, phoning hospitals, begging Red Cross workers and rescuers for anything. Brandon was eventually persuaded to drive to a hospital to be treated for smoke inhalation and bruises. But David remained, searching for information. And when he had exhausted every avenue he could think of, he went home and turned on the television, switching from channel to channel in a frenzy, trying to catch a glimpse of one of his gang. Friday, he was back on the scene, among the hordes of television cameras and cables and microphones. In the background, firefighters were clambering through the debris, digging up charred remains. David gave interviews to everyone, hating every minute, but thinking that just a glimpse of his face or hearing his voice might help an injured friend. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, there was someone he knew in a hospital who hadn't been identified yet. He drove back and forth to the family center set up at a hotel in Warwick, and scoured the lists of victims. Grief counselors offered cookies and stuffed toys and free phone calls. But they couldn't provide information on his friends still listed as missing. Steve. Dina. Keith. Jason. Andrea. Tommy. ``What are you supposed to think when friends are listed as `missing?''' Brandon said. ``Just let us know if they are alive or dead.'' Sitting in a Chinese restaurant just a short walk from the site, David and Brandon and Chris ate dinner late Friday and wondered: How long is too long to hope? David's cell phone rang. He talked for a few minutes and then he turned to the others, eyes filled with tears. ``There are only five missing now,'' he said. ``They just identified Steve.'' 02/22/03 13:27 EST
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