BURNING QUESTIONS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-16-23)

 

     We had a scheduled fire alarm at work last week, and we were all required to assemble in the hallway and review the emergency procedures. It was an extremely small hallway, and my guess is that if the Fire Marshall knew that there were 30 of us packed in there, he would have shut the place down. What we learned is that if anyone should smell smoke, they are to break the safety glass and pull the fire alarm. A call to 911 should be next, especially if they lacerated the radial artery in their wrist with the broken glass from the fire alarm. If there are flames, we need to proceed to stairwell "C," unless it's cut off by smoke in Hallway "D." Should that be the case, we are to attempt entry into the "E" wing, where multi-denominational praying is to take place, along with a review of the alphabet to figure out our next move. When the talk was over I let everyone know that an odor of smoke around lunchtime may be attributed to the toaster in my office. And based on the abstruse nature of the fire safety procedures, if a fire starts in my office we're ALL toast.

     The Fire Warden passed out flyers telling us what to do to escape a smoke-filled room. You're supposed to place a wet cloth over your nose and mouth to filter the smoke, take short breaths, stay low on your hands and knees and do NOT break windows. Which is the same procedure we used when riding in the bar car of the old Conrail commuter train. That car was like a moving den of iniquity, and you could commit at least four of the seven deadly sins by the time you reached 125th Street without even trying.

     For five years my office was located in the building across the street, and they sounded a fire alarm literally every month. Which seemed almost irresponsible, because eventually you became inured to that beeping noise and just ignored it. It was like the boy who cried wolf, if he had made a beeping noise. My office was on the 13th floor, where an actual fire every month would have seemed perfectly appropriate. 

     Fire is no laughing matter, as are many of the matters in my columns. I almost burned down my parents' house once when I was cooking French fries back in the 1980s. As much as I'd like to blame France for this, I can't, so I'll blame the 1980s. I had left the pan unattended and it eventually burst into flames, overcooking both the French fries and the kitchen cabinets. Once I realized what had happened I sprung into action by trying to remember what you're supposed to use to extinguish a grease fire. Is it ONLY water or NEVER water (NEVER water)? A grease fire is a class B fire, which should be put out by an appropriate fire extinguisher, which luckily we had several of distributed throughout the house. 

     Firemen quickly came to finish putting out the blaze, although now, of course, we call them fire-fighters. Fire-fightresses if they are women. I'm not sure why we choose to call some professions by a gender-specific names and not others. Does it seem important that a man be known as a waiter and a woman a waitress? Now that they're called servers, they are never even the ones who actually serve the meal when it arrives. By contrast a woman, for instance, might not want a doctor who does not possess all the same standard equipment as she does. She may be more comfortable with a doctorette. 

     As much as I think that vaping is a poor alternative to smoking, at least it seems less likely to cause a fire. And that's better than nothing, unless we're on a desert island and we need to signal planes flying overhead. "Does anyone have a match?" I ask, "one that does not involve my face and some other object? Let me see a show of hands." The show closes quickly. "Everyone here quit smoking? Not even second hand? And how healthy did that decision turn out now?" Someone offers, "I have an e-cigarette, and we can use it to start an e-fire." "All right, any other suggestions?" "Yes! Remember that Facebook post that asked what three CDs you'd want with you if you were stranded on a desert island? Well, I BROUGHT them with me! Does anyone have a CD player?"

     Any fire professional will tell you that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, and a smoke alarm weighs about seven ounces. This is also a good time to thank those men and women who have risked their lives in this dangerous and unpredictable profession. Those who run toward the fire as the rest of us are running away from it. And if I am ever running toward a fire it's only because I wrongly assumed that  stairwell "D" came after stairwell "C."