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January 19, 2005
Philly PD, at your service
So, I was sitting at my desk, finally getting around to finishing up my thank-you notes (just like Sars told me to), when the strong smell of gas, or something similarly noxious, wafted into the room. I sniffed a few times, realized how strong it was, and went downstairs to investigate. It didn’t seem to be coming from the oven, and the burners came on, so the pilot light wasn’t out. I opened the basement door and it hit me even stronger, so I started to freak out a little. Patrick wasn’t home, and he’s usually the one who investigates pilot lights and heaters and things like that, and I didn’t want to go poking around in the basement if there was a gas leak or something, but I wasn’t sure what to do. I totally blanked on who you call in situations like this. The landlord? The gas company? What if it was nothing? But what if I was about to die from fumes? So I called my parents. My dad told me to call the fire department, and I did.
(Tonight was the second time I’ve ever called 911. Oddly enough, both times it’s been about a gas leak. The first time was last spring. I was coming home, up our little dead-end South Philly street, and one of my neighbors was hanging out her window yelling. She spotted me: “Call 911!” she bellowed. “We’ve got a gas leak. Please call them for me!” So I did, but later I discovered that hers was a false alarm, and that she’d been getting people to call for her all day. Patrick, in fact, had already called the gas company for her several hours before. There was some sort of situation going on between her and her daughter that I didn’t quite get the full scoop on, and it seems that all of this gas-leak business was some sort of attention-seeking mechanism she was using to up the drama level.)
I explained the situation to the dispatcher, who transferred me to the fire department, and within a few minutes, two police officers and three fire fighters were in my living room and basement, sniffing. While the fire fighters investigated the basement, the two cops took down my name and phone number, and then the three of us stood there waiting for the results of the investigation going on downstairs.
And an interesting aspect of being a cop that I’d never fully thought about before is that you get to go into so many strangers’ houses. Sure, a lot of times you’re probably too wrapped up in the situation at hand to notice anything, but how many calls like mine are there? Routine, mundane calls, during which you can stand around and idly study the contents of a stranger’s home? I wondered what they were noticing about mine, what judgments they were making.
The house wasn’t clean, but it wasn’t its messiest, either. I figured they’ve seen far worse, so I wasn’t too self-conscious about it, until I noticed the one fire fighter who wasn’t in the basement glancing at the stack of CDs that was sitting on top of the stereo cabinet. Right on top, out of its case, was Neko Case’s album “Blacklisted.” Which wouldn’t be anything odd, except that the album art she happens to have chosen to adorn this particular CD is the word BEAVER in big, red, capital letters. I’ve never been clear on why, exactly. But now this fireman probably thinks I’m into some sort of weird 1970s porn or something. Thanks, Neko.
The determination was that it smelled more like paint thinner than gas, and the police officers asked me if I had been painting. I shook my head, feeling accused. “But are you a painter?” the tall, butch female cop asked. I realized that to her, this was not a loaded question about whether I chose to define myself as an artist, but a simple request for information. “Yes, I do paint,” I said. “But I haven’t painted anything for the past month or two, so I don’t think that would have anything to do with the smell.”
We stood in the living room, the two cops glancing around a little more. “Did you paint those?” she asked, nodding at the two little still-lives of an orange on the wall behind the couch. “Yes,” I said. Her partner, a boyish-faced cop who’s probably no older than I am, looked over. “They’re good,” he said. “Thanks,” I said.
I thought about how it’s funny how clear-cut the question of whether or not I am a painter becomes when it’s all about finding out whether I own paint-thinner. In that case, yes, of course I am. I own paints and brushes and turpentine and liquin and canvases. It’s a nice reminder that sometimes the existential definitions are all that matter; if I paint, then I am a painter. If I write, then I am a writer. I get so wrapped up in whether or not I’m good enough or serious enough about these various endeavors that sometimes I don’t give myself credit for just plain endeavoring.
The fire fighters trundled back up the narrow basement stairs. They hadn’t been able to find anything that was causing the smell, so maybe it had come from outside. Who knows. I think I remember hearing a car idling outside and then pulling away right before the smell hit; perhaps it had some sort of really ghastly exhaust going on that just poured into the house. In any case, it was determined that I wasn’t in any danger, so everyone filed back out. I thanked them all for their time and apologized for the false alarm. They said to call right back if I smelled anything else funny.
I live right by the police station. The corner where I wait for the bus is directly across the street from it, so often while I’m standing there I see various goings-on at the station; shifts changing, cops heading into or out of the building, squad cars pulling in and out of the parking lot. And while it didn’t occur to me as we were standing together in the living room, I just realized that I actually remember having noticed this pair of officers before, some night recently when I was waiting for the bus. I remember seeing them and thinking how young he looked, and that made me think about my cousin, exactly my age, who’s been a police officer now for the past couple years out in California.
Maybe I’ll see them again some day. They see so many faces that they probably won’t recognize me, especially not when I’m bundled up in a hat and scarf and winter coat. But I’ll recognize them, and I’ll thank them again, silently, for coming by and reassuring me, and maybe most of all, for liking my paintings.
Posted by sarah at January 19, 2005 12:17 AM
Comments
Sarah: I am relieved that the gas leak turned out not to be serious. I was still worried this morning, wondering if it came back in the night, and was relieved to see your name in my e-mail list today.
Your paintings ARE good and your writing IS outstanding, so you ARE a painter and a writer.
I think this piece would make a great addition to the Philadelphia Inquirer and would be appreciated by police officers and firefighters across the city.
Love, Mom
Posted by: Mary at January 19, 2005 08:38 AM
you know, up til a few months ago, i didn't even know that you should check the pilot light if you smell gas. and, as i was already 25 by then, sars has probably lost all respect for me.
its good to have it confirmed in writing though that 20% is the appropriate tip, so i'm not entirely resentful. sars: opinionated, yes, but also helpful and informative.
Posted by: jen at January 19, 2005 10:42 AM
sarah, love, i miss you! let me say: misery loves company, squared and cubed. as in: how many nights have i tossed and turn in a wedding/celebration panic? many. how many times have i commiserated to my friend martha over same? many. how many times have i bared my teeth at nick's sleeping face in the middle of the night? ...er, not so much. but rest assured, we're going to boogie our feminist butts off this summer, and be the hottest, throbbingest brides ever. yeah. oh. and nick and i are trying to figure out some sort of honeymoony thing and whether we can hang out at the cottage or what... we dunno. more soon. do you know what i'm doing right now? watching the duke/carolina game. yes. me, sitting in my house, watching basketball. whoa.
Posted by: claire at February 9, 2005 10:08 PM
