This is the story of some pants and a fire, but the pants were not actually on fire (nor on, for that matter).
A little background as to my state of mind: following a long week with little sleep, I topped it off with an eventful weekend with even less sleep. Monday morning, I oozed my way out of bed and managed to pull myself together for the workday, where I got things done without much grace or efficiency. Driving home, I fretted about my environmental group meeting that was to occur that same evening (and wishing I could just veg instead). I was nearly in a fugue state, I was so tired, but got my car parked and myself up the stairs and home, sweet home.
After setting down my bags and kicking off my shoes, I did a quick sweep of the kitchen floor and meandered to the bathroom to put in my contacts. While putting in my left contact, an alarm sounded, startling me and my contact fell in the sink. I thought at first that one of the alarms was malfunctioning and just needed to be turned off. I rushed around semi-blind trying to figure out which alarm it was, and gradually it dawned on me that it was probably a real alarm. I wondered if it was carbon monoxide and fear slowed me down enough to realize the alarm was not coming from inside my apartment. Opening the door to the hall, I was hit by a wall of sound and nearly stumbled, it was so loud. Like air raid sirens, with impossibly bright flashing lights. Obviously the fire alarm, then, but no smoke was apparent, nor any neighbors. My blood was pounding in my head.
I jerked the door shut and turned away. I stood facing the closet with my mind skipping like a broken record, not knowing what to do and what about my meeting? I’d faced many false fire alarms in my life, but never a real one, so I had an irrational impulse to hide under the covers and to wait for it to go away. Knowing the danger was real, I decided to leave and take minimal essentials: eyeglasses, shoes, phone, keys. Braving the klaxons and shutting my apartment door, another moment of indecision: to lock or not to lock? Knowing it wasn’t important, I still went through the slide & twist ritual, worrying about rampaging thieves in apocalyptic situations (did I mention I wasn’t thinking straight?).
I shuffled dazedly to the back stairwell and was very relieved to find two upstairs neighbors coming down from the floor above: Kevin, whom I knew, and a stern-looking woman whom I didn’t. None of us knew what was going on. As we entered the lobby, we paused to take in the scene: lights flashing through the open front doors and, lying prone across the front welcome mat, an unmoving heavyset man with only a shirt on (and nothing else, his hairy lower glory on display), and 3 firemen standing around him with long hoses in hands. Just then, the elevator door opened next to us and an irritated-looking man exited and paused mid-stride as he saw the same scene.
“Why doesn’t he have any pants on?” Kevin asked for the first time. The unknown woman turned from the scene ahead and sternly said to the newly arrived man, “You know you should never use the elevator during a fire.” It looked as if the firemen were trying to revive the prone and pantsless man. “Why doesn’t he have any pants on?” The elevator man feebly uttered, “I know.” I was wondering if the pantsless man was dead. “Why doesn’t he have any pants on?” My head was pounding from the alarms. The woman continued to chastise the elevator man. Kevin asked “Why doesn’t he have any pants on?” as if he thought we might have an answer this time. I saw the body kick a leg out lazily and I was relieved – I guessed he might be unconscious from smoke inhalation or something (he was unmarked). “Oh, it’s Peter!” (with a kind of “of course it is” tone to her voice) the woman exclaimed as another man walked in from one of the side wings. This man saw the firemen, but walked around them and nonchalantly past the semi-nude man as if merely going out for a stroll.
I cut off Kevin’s next question and said, “Let’s go out the back way.” He quickly agreed and we went back into the stairwell, leaving the stern woman and the elevator man chatting (or bickering) and the blaring alarms behind. It was a relief to exit the building through the fire escape door. As we walked down the stairs and past the wire fence to tennis court, I half-jokingly said that I hoped our building wouldn’t burn down. Kevin said wryly, “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.” I was confused for a moment, then remembered [the building had burned in 1965, causing much of the school to be unusable and thus the eventual conversion into condos]. I forced a laugh and said, “Oh, yeah.”
Shaking off thoughts of burning buildings (still no fire or smoke in evidence), I began to enjoy the relative peace of the back parking lot, noticing the verdant trees, the fresh blacktop (we’d just had the lots repaved) and the absence of alarms. Reaching the edge of the lot, we ran into a small tattooed man (another neighbor I didn’t know). We chatted about the situation (none of us knowing details, not even if there was a fire) and Kevin mentioned the prone man whom the woman had said was Peter. The tattooed man said he knew a Peter in the building who was an ex-cop and a bit crazy. He started to tell the story of why he was crazy (something about a late-night visit with repeated doorbell ringings), but had to leave to take care of his evacuated kitty. By that point, I could smell something in the air, sort of like roasting marshmallows (not exactly a smoke smell, but a sort of burning chemical smell).
Kevin said he was going to check the front of the building and I said I’d come along. When we rounded the back corner, we saw a large fire truck parked with flashing lights and several firemen dismounting. Our building manager was in full bike regalia, with wraparound sunglasses, mounting a bicycle (as if he were preparing to race off and get help). One of the firemen called out, “Are you the manager” and he said, “Yeah” and pedaled over to the truck. We walked by bemused by the bicycle. As we neared, the front corner, two cop cars sped down the main street and stopped with turning flourishes, neatly blocking the road just in front of us (on the left edge of the building).
Turning the front corner, we could see clumps of people milling about on the sidewalk as well as more people in the parking lot and a number of emergency vehicles. As we headed towards the war memorial, I counted 5 fire trucks out front: 2 large ones parked in the street, 1 by the front doors (as seen earlier, from inside), plus 2 smaller trucks. There were more cop cars as well. The few people I overheard on the way down the street didn’t seem to know what was going on any better than I did. I managed to lose Kevin along the way, but was very distracted by the scene – so much freneticism but not an iota of smoke or flame. I was also concerned about my friends who would be meeting me soon and not having an apartment to hold the meeting in.
Arriving at the war memorial, I collapsed onto a stone bench. I was still ridiculously tired, but also now wide awake (like waking up at 4am for an early flight and slugging down an extra-large coffee). Several more vehicles arrived in a rush, one ambulance and some more cops or fire trucks; they were like ants crawling around in some indecipherable pattern; it was hard to pay attention anymore. I tried to call my friends to discuss canceling or rescheduling, but realized my phone was missing one of the numbers. When I called my friend Rachel, she asked if I knew about the cops and she explained that she was just turning onto my street when a cop car blocked her way (she had come early).
Since she’d had to park around back, I walked back the way I came, all fire trucks accounted for, but no more building manager. She gave me a hug and I somewhat incredulously explained what had occurred so far while we made our way back to the war memorial. We saw the ambulance now in the parking lot and some paramedics loading a stretcher inside. I don’t recall hearing a siren, but it drove off and I hoped the man was OK. Other uniformed men walked past us as we sat and had some dried fruit that she’d brought. When I peeked around the monument, I could see several hoses going into the building and one engine was extra-loud. I thought maybe they were sucking smoke out, but I still couldn’t see any smoke or fire.
Dave rode up on his bike soon after and I explained the evening’s events again. We shared some bell peppers and apples he’d brought, along with Rachel’s snacks and chatted amiably for a while. Ace called to say that she was delayed because some part of her bus had fallen off, but she arrived only about ten minutes later. After repeating the story for the third time, we held our little meeting (discussing our environmental lifestyle changes). Considering my lack of preparedness or focus, it went pretty well, even though we were ironically breathing in the high carbon output of the idling fire engine.
Eventually most of the fire trucks left and so, too, did my friends. The front entrance to the main wing was still blocked by fire hoses and a truck, so I asked a nearby firemen what was going on and if I could go in. He said there had been a “small fire” and it was out, but they were still investigating and though the 1st floor near that entrance was closed off, I could go in another door. Luckily, I live on the 2nd floor.
I ambled over to the the north wing entrance and went inside, then up broad, uneven cement stairs (badly worn from the high school days) and then through brightly lit hallways full of that marshmallow burning scent. With some trepidation, I unlocked and opened my door, but fortunately, my apartment was exactly as I’d left it (smoke-free and all). Other than the passed out Peter (whom I later heard was fine except he’d checked himself into rehab), things turned out OK (no one was hurt, no visible signs of fire), so all in all, it was a very lucky thing.
Epilogue: The next day when I came home from work, I came in through the usual entrance (this time, free of obstructions) and came up the familiar stairwell. On the 2nd floor landing, I was amused to find, wrapped loosely around one of those red spoked wheels that should control the sprinkler system, a pair of khaki pants. Although they were nowhere near where he had been lying passed out or where he lived (on the first floor), I felt certain that these were Peter’s missing pants.
