The list of things that will have you up at 3 am cleaning
your apartment (and by cleaning, I mean down on your knees with a sponge and
bucket, cleaning) must be a short one.
To that list, if not already present, I respectfully submit one…
- Unwittingly, and quite-nearly, setting your apartment building on fire.
10 hours prior…
After several weeks of chilly days in my new apartment, I
decided it was time to try a little supplemental heat. My place occupies the first floor and front
half of a 100 year-old Victorian 3-plex, owned by a
pleasant German couple from the Oakland Hills.
The living room has a medium-sized space heater which stands vertically
against the wall about 3 feet high. It's encased in a metal cabinet the shape of a
small bookcase with a grill that faces forward to vent the heated air. A simple flip of the thermostat on the wall,
and the electric ignition kicked in, igniting the gas with that characteristic
‘whump.’ Moments later, a beautiful
radiant heat emanated from the metal casing and I cozied onto a nearby couch,
grateful for yet another small miracle of modern living.
Later the same day, now 9pm, I returned home from an evening
swim with the local Masters swim team.
Because my apartment doesn’t get any direct sunlight (i.e. no south facing windows), it takes forever
for a damp towel to dry, and the firm rectangular corners of the warm heater were
just begging for one to be draped over them - which I now did. As both wet towel and suit gradually warmed, I
smiled, envisioning a warm dry towel by morning and a healthy dose of
humidified air. I left the apartment and rode my bicycle 10 blocks to a local bar,
the night’s designated spot for swim team’s monthly Thursday social night.
After returning home around 11 pm, I checked on the towel,
now mostly dry and feeling so toasty. I
spent another hour surfing the web before climbing into bed for the night,
satisfied that all was in order.
I don’t know why I woke up.
Was it the smell? The heat? The
gentle ‘crackling’ sound? Or perhaps the
flickering light radiating from the living room. Whatever it was, when I did wake up, it was like
being shot from a canon - for all my sensory inputs converged into an
epinephrine charged outburst to move - quickly!
From my bed, the living room was a step away (more an alcove
than a bedroom), and once there, my mind instantly snapped a memorable
photograph of the frightening scene.
From the corner of the room, where the heater sits between two couches,
my swim towel and suit were ablaze, with bright yellow flames clawing towards
the ceiling.
I grabbed the edge of the towel and pulled the ball of fire
to the floor. The burning cotton towel produced the bright yellow flames, while
my petroleum-based polyester swimsuit added the heat and acrid smoke, quickly filling
the apartment in a hazy glow and triggering the fire alarm which shrieked in
protest, alternating between screeching beeps and a commanding woman’s staccato voice,
“Fire. Fire. Fire.”
I threw open the front door, scooped the flaming pile into
my hands, and backed my way across the room.
The towel and suit broke apart into several pieces as I moved toward the
front door, each one now burning like a little campfire on the beautiful oak
floor. The melting polyester burned my
hands and dripped like flaming candle wax.
Once outside, I threw the flaming ball off the wooden front porch and onto
the concrete walk below. I made several
more round trips between the living room and front porch pulling the remaining fireballs
outside, tossing them into a single heap, burning brightly, and safely, on the
concrete.
While taking a moment to gather my senses, a couple from
next door hurriedly walked over, the woman already on the phone to 911. I stood there in my underwear, shaking the
hot plastic off my hands and facing them with what must have been a look of
crazed disbelief. The male neighbor
looked at me, the burning pile, and the smoke pouring out the front door, and
made a reasonable assessment. “Dude! Does somebody around here not like you?”
Exasperated, I could barely form a coherent sentence, beyond
“It’s ok. It’s ok.”
The woman talking on the phone nodded with me in
confirmation, “Yeah, it looks like the fire is out.” I took a moment to explain
to them the situation, and thanked them for coming over. Realizing how close to disaster I’d come, I felt a compelling urge to give them both a huge hug of neighborly love, but my half
naked state stopped me short.
Slowly coming to my senses, I opened the windows, gathered a
bucket, some sponges, a scraper, and went to work cleaning up the mess. Ever so thankful of the divine.
