Firing up the spirit of the holiday season...
American artist, Andy Warhol once said, "In the future, everyone will be world-famous for fifteen minutes." For at least the same amount of time, the residents of my apartment complex literally became embroiled in charred humor.
Blame it on the reeling sensation brought on by the second wave of a pandemic, and/or the nail-biting wait for the outcome of a presidential election. Nevertheless, an incident serious in nature, but nipped in the bud, gathered no moss in the perpetuation of charred humor, whereby all names referenced in this anecdote are fictitious.
Wheeling my shopping cart filled with groceries from the parking lot to the lobby’s front door, I exchanged greetings with Don and Sarah, both sitting on one of the outdoor benches. My ride on the elevator to the second floor, and the long walk to my unit on the opposite end, were unremarkable. Until I detected a pungent aroma of burnt offerings while putting my groceries away.
Poking my head out the door, I detected a thick haze of smoke along the second-floor corridor which prompted me to call our Management office on first. Apparently, several people already had—including Don, who reported inadvertently leaving something unattended on his stove—unbeknownst to me at that time.
And, so, the fifteen minutes of charred humor began:
After making that call, the curiosity factor smoked me out of my apartment, as it had my neighbors directly across from me, Bill and Donna. Donna informed that Don was cooking sausages, to which I replied, “They’re well-done now!” That instigated perverse laughter.
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Sarah, who must have missed Don going back outside due to the onrush of fumes in his apartment, thought he might have been inside. Bill told her he wasn’t. Not taking any chances, Sarah opened the door, which may have triggered the fire alarm, mandating everyone evacuate.
Since I had a hair appointment at the nearby salon within the hour, it behooved me to leave in a hurry before getting hemmed in by firetrucks. As residents convened outside the building, Don was safe and sound, occupying one of the benches in front of the complex. I believe he thought, as did I, that despite the blaring fire alarm, Management dissuaded the fire department from showing up.
Charred humor gathered no moss as I drove the short stretch along the Wampanoag Trail to the hair salon, listening to a local radio station already playing Christmas music. Coinciding with Andy Williams singing, “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year”—lyrics, 'the hap-happiest season of all'—to be precise: not one, not two, but three firetrucks sounding their sirens, followed by a wailing Rescue, followed by the flashing lights on the fire chief’s jeep—headed in the opposite direction to the apartment complex. I admit to laughing out loud at the irony of it all.
Arriving somewhat earlier than my scheduled appointment, I explained the situation to my stylist. She and the other stylists, having witnessed the brigade on the Trail through the shop window, joined the fray of conversation.
By the time I got home, only a whiff of the mishap remained. Lingering far longer in my memory than any charred remnants—folks looking out for the welfare of their neighbors. That’s the spirit of the holiday season.
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You made me think about people living in log cabins with an overly dry Christmas tree with candles on it. Occasionally lit as Christmas arrived and especially, on Christmas Eve. But so many of those candles caught the tree on fire and then the cabin. Putting the family in the barn for the rest of the winter.
Ron
Good story, Eva.
Mark
Well, that could have been worse. Better safe than sorry!
Sandie :)