Americium and Me
Half of my beard is exceptionally wet from the drool running down my face. It’s somewhere past 3:30 in the morning. I’ve been drinking. Not just a little drinking either, it was that kind of disinfect-your-stomach-in hopes-it-will-sanitize-your-mind-as-well-drinking. I’m reeling.
“How could such a serious piece of sleep be interrupted so easily?”
I start to flip over my pillow, like a child hiding that ominous wet spot growing between their legs, when I heard it — a small beep. A fire alarm was running low on batteries.
—
My Sophmore year in high school we had 16 bomb scares. 16. And they started about half way into the year. After the first call came in, the principal shouted over the PA, “EVERYONE GET OUT OF THE SCHOOL!” Then the fire alarm went off. On some level, I didn’t like the way she was telling me what to do. I took my time leaving the school. It took hours for them to search the school with bomb dogs. Someone clearly thought they must have been onto something.
We had bomb scares so frequently people started to prepare for them. The bomb dog became the unofficial school mascot. Frisbees, tennis balls, and blankets found their way into students backpacks. In the winter months, everyone walked around like Jews fleeing Poland because nobody wanted to be stuck outside for hours in a tank top.
It got so bad that I remember taking a test one day in class. It was a test I was going to fail, like I did so many tests in high school. As I read the first question, I thought to myself, “Please.”
I wrote my name and as I was going back to dash my Z, the fire alarm went off. The chorus of whispered, “Yes’” suggested that I may not have been alone in failing that fucker.
—
In college, we used to have to show up to film screenings every Wednesday afternoon. One particular Wednesday the TA didn’t show up to put the movie on. So we sat, in silence… until the fire alarm went off. It was at this moment the MIA TA showed up. As I’m getting up to leave, nobody is getting up to leave with me. It enrages me. An opportunity to leave a boring class, and I’m going to be alone in taking it? I think not.
“That’s the fire alarm. I’m leaving.” I start walking towards the door. The TA is trying to figure out how to use the DVD player.
“You guys are all fucking idiots!” I declared, “You’re going to burn to death because you’re too fucking lazy to get out of your seats and go stand outside for 10 minutes to make sure it’s not a real fire? You morons can fuck off!”
I stormed out. I paced around outside while the incessant honk of the fire alarm echoed off the large concrete buildings. I was convincing myself I was right. I was the one with enough gumption to leave, what the hell do they know? Sloth is a deadly sin for a reason. The honking stopped.
Unfortunately for me, I had left all my stuff in the classroom upon my departure, like any good fire safety veteran would suggest. As I walked towards the door I swallowed hard, grabbed the handle, and opened it. They had already shut off the lights and were starting the movie. In full illumination of the day I stood in the doorway.
“I just want to apologize to for getting a little heated back there. I don’t think you guys are morons, especially you TA, I just get a little serious about fire alarms and I’m sorry.”
I slinked back to my seat and hoped the darkness of the theater would keep people from looking at me. But I had left a mark. Years later at a bar I saw someone from that very class. His name was GoodHope, which was distinctive enough for me to remember. He didn’t remember my name though, but he asked me, “Aren’t you the guy who told the whole class to fuck off and ran out of the room because you heard the fire alarm?”
“That’d be me.” I admitted.
—
With my fire alarm defeats drunkenly running through my head, I started stalking around my apartment for the next beep. Afraid to put the full weight on any one foot, I slid about. The hardwood was cold under the souls of my feet, my wet beard wasn’t helping any. The room was thick with anticipation. I held my arms out to the sides, like a child playing airplane, as if it might jump out and grab me.
Beep.
The dance continued. I wasn’t sure where it was coming from. But I knew it was close. I walked around to see how many fire alarms I actually had in the house. There were only two. I took the first one apart, and removed the battery.
Beep.
“AH HA! Gotcha fucker.” I replaced the first battery and took the battery out of the other fire alarm. I I wiped my beard on my arm and strode back to bed. The covers were warm and the pillow was cool.
Beep.
“No. No fucking way that’s possible. They’re both running low on batteries?” I thought to myself. I didn’t even have any more batteries to try. This was the unprotected-sex of the fire prevention world.
I tried to take the battery out of the second alarm but the latching mechanism was proving a challenge for me at this hour and BAC.
Beep.
“FUCK OFF” I threw the little dome at the wall. It made a cheap, plastic thud as it bounced off and hit the floor.There was a satisfying sliding sound as the battery ejected from it’s Americium-inspired-amigo.
Satisfied, almost sexually, I got back into bed.
Beep.
I was too drunk and defeated to keep going. I put the pillow over my head in an effort to keep out the noise. Suddenly, I felt my ear was wet. It was. From my drool soaked pillow. I flipped it over once more and went to sleep.
—
The beeps were gone when I woke up. They even stayed away for a few days after.This evening, they returned. I sat on my bed, fencing with this aural foe for maybe 10 minutes. I noticed that it sounded as though they were coming somehow from my bedroom window. I walk outside to the window and sitting just outside of my window, out of view, are two fire alarms.
I walked back inside, fully illuminated in the dark night by the kitchen light. I was again apologizing, to myself this time, for acting rashly because of fire alarms.
