As a freshman in college I once almost slept through a fire alarm. I would have succeeded, too, had my roommate not been raised in a mid-western state which left him with an overactive sense of personal responsibility for my life. Actually, it was quite impressive, because not only was the siren mounted directly above my bed, but the school had seen to it that there was a strobe attached which burnt the retinas of people three counties away, yet I was perfectly willing to sleep right through the noise and the lights. Alas, it was not meant to be. So, as I stood outside, wearing an improvised outfit of basketball shorts, workboots and an inside-out t-shirt -- being pelted by snowballs emanating from the frat across the street -- I decided I didn't much care for centralized fire alarm systems, or people from Ohio for that matter.
I have since learned to appreciate the folks from the Buckeye state, but my feelings about fire alarms have not changed. We all know that things you dislike tend to come in bunches. So, it should surprise no one that my semi-comatose state of deciding which level of scrutiny applies to a classification of a blind midget addicted to crack cocaine (improvised review question) who was being denied his right to freely associate with non-midgets was broken by the familiar shrill of a fire alarm in my apartment building. Constitutional Law and a fire alarm -- I had reached my own, personal level of hell. I reached for my trusty Nascar-branded ear plugs (distributed gratis by the library, under a sign that said "do not eat"), but was quickly overruled by my better half who suggested that we should at least investigate. Having learned my lesson from last time, I first checked to make sure I was wearing pants and second for the lack of any frat boys with snowballs (yes, I know it's May, but they have freezers!). Finding the coast to be clear, we went downstairs to literally sniff around and wait for the cavalry.
I am happy to report that my tax dollars result in a rather prompt response by two fire engines and a ladder. Three of the firefighters, however, were too intrigued by the "chicken pox" car parked in front of the building to worry about saving our lives, but it is understandable -- the car actually has spray-painted pocks on it (gotta love students). The other firefighters started menacingly in our direction. This is when I noticed that one of them had the biggest crowbar I have ever seen, another had a pick-axe and the third kind of looked like Santa Claus. I opened the front door to the building as they got close, and the guy with the pick axe looked annoyed that I kept him from the truly enjoyable aspect of his job -- breaking down a door.
Two minutes later, the fire brigade re-emerged to inform us that there was no fire (tax dollars at work, people!). I asked if we could turn the bleating of Hades off now, but was told that required a key to get into this tiny little box that was hanging out on the wall beside us, and that, of course, the fire department lacked said key. My suggestion that the pick-axe or the crowbar be used to procure a solution to the lack of key problem was met with cold stares. I think the guy was still mad I didn't let him break down the front door.
Both my management company's regular business line and the emergency line told me to call back at a more convenient time. Undeterred, I decided to ramble down the street to the office. Buzzing the intercom system connected me to a surly gentleman who assured me that "there's a fire, we're working as fast as we can!" A part of me really wanted to know what it was that they were working on, but the part that pays the monthly condo fees decided it was probably better if I didn't know. So, I decided to be satisfied that they were working as fast as they could be and went back to my earplugs and midget problem.
The score, for those of you keeping track at home, is now: firealarm 2, leon 0.
In somewhat-related news, one final down. Two to go, and the chances of me keeping my sanity through this process: about 50-50.
