San Antonio, Issue 4

We've had our furniture over a week now. As the holiday weekend comes to a close, I am happy to report that everything is officially unpacked and, except for the lone martini glass, unharmed (including the prized and famed state mug collection). Having furniture hasn't been all sunshine roses and rainbows though. Now that we're finally able to start settling in, we're becoming aware of some of the charming quarks our new digs have to offer. Pay attention future visitors, this information may benefit you during your visit—it might even dissuade you from coming at all.

The date was Wednesday, August 31st. In the wee hours of the morning, as happy Texans slumbered away at 4AM, Jen and I were jolted awake. I will gladly take an earthquake any day of the week over the terror and adrenalin rush caused by the piercing cry we heard. At first I didn't know what was going on. In fact, I vaguely remember putting my head back on the pillow and closing my eyes. The sound itself was pulsating—piercing two-tone warbles for a few seconds followed by silence, and then more loud piercing warbles. It was easy to assume at first that it was some kind of dream sequence. It was easy, at first.

After about five seconds of "dreaming", it was clear that I was awake and this was at best a living nightmare. It took a few more seconds for my brain to register what it actually was that I was hearing. After ten seconds, the disorientation was wearing off. I remembered that I am a fireman. I leapt out of bed and ran for the pole, anxious to get to the truck—it was my turn to work the lights and siren.

After fifteen seconds I was disoriented again as I realized I am not a fireman, but this was in fact a fire alarm. Our apartment complex is only three years old, and like most new construction, it features the latest and greatest when it comes to building and fire codes. Each room has it's own fire sprinkler, as do the common hallways and staircases outside. There is also a centralized fire alarm, with pull
stations in the common areas and alarm buzzers inside each room in the apartment, mounted in the ceiling. Just in case that's not enough, we also have four smoke detectors mounted in the ceiling, one in each bedroom and not one, but two in the living room. The detectors are hard-wired with battery backups. For added legal protection, there is even a paragraph in our lease about the punishment for deactivating smoke detectors or failing to immediately report any problems. On August 31st at 4AM, I wanted nothing more than to make an immediate report.

Questions started popping into my head as my brain recovered from the adrenaline flood and began functioning again. Which alarm was going off, the alarm for the building or the smoke detectors in our apartment? If it was our detectors, were they connected to the building alarm? Were people evacuating? Where the hell is the smoke? It's 4AM and I just thought I was a fireman having a nightmare, something better damned well be on fire. I started having flashbacks of Henderson, Nevada during the Y2KRTE as I stumbled in the dark to the peephole in the front door. Nobody outside, and no smoke or flames either. This seemed to be our own problem, some kind of cruel Texas hazing ritual.

By now the warbles had stopped and the scene began to resemble the one from Christmas Vacation, where Chevy Chase's neighbors, Todd and Margo, return home to a mysteriously wet carpet. In response to his wife's inquiry about why the carpet is wet, Todd says to his wife with annoyance in his rising voice, "I don't KNOOOOOW, Margo!!". In the pre-dawn hours of August 31st, in our groggy and now disgruntled states, Jen quickly assumed the role of Margo and I of Todd. We thumbed through the lease, searching for a phone number—to no avail. We learned we were supposed to report such a malfunction immediately, but no one was immediately available. The loud warbles had stopped, but one of the detectors in the living room was still chirping every minute or so. It seemed the most likely explanation was a backup battery in need of replacement. I climbed on a chair and removed the battery from the chirping culprit. Satisfied I had solved the problem, I began to calm down and went back to bed.

No sooner had my head hit the pillow, the smoke alarm called me a coward. I got up again, this time ready to fight. Cursing profusely, I climbed up on the chair and disconnected the alarm completely. I set him on the entertainment center and, as I turned my back, the bastard flipped me the finger and chirped again. I took it to the kitchen and set it in the pantry behind the canned goods. I was about to slam the door shut when something caught my eye. I picked up the unit again. This wasn't Texas hazing, this was a conspiracy. The alarm was made by BRK Electronics, a tiny division of Allied Van Lines.

More To Come...