The Alarm that Cried: "Fire!"

Through most of the pandemic I had remained comfortably (stoically?) insulated from the instability slowly building within our society. But in the beginning of 2021, little chunks of America's crumbling empire started falling into my lap. A flake of capitol riot here, a splinter of GME short squeeze there. Then 10 years of unkept promises to harden the electric grid resulted in 10 days of infrastructure breakdown.

No electricity, no heat, no potable water, record low temperatures. Even so, C and I were shielded somewhat by our proximity to the local hospital; having power in a crisis is an acceptable trade-off for years of ambulances screaming past. We did our part; had friends over whenever we could, we turned the heat down, layered up, and snuggled close to sleep deep in the chilled dark.

A mechanical shriek dragged me from that winter slumber; a triple sound at once piercing and throbbing. Fire alarm. The suspicion hit me before my feet hit the floor. We had just lived through 11 months of institutional failure, buck-passing, betrayal of the social contract. What are the chances that the apartment management company actually did the testing and maintenance required to keep a fire alarm system functioning correctly?

Zero. There is zero possibility that happened. Armed only with this hunch, I angrily yanked the LV wires out of the alarm module in our bedroom and put some water on for tea. I stalked sullenly out of the front door, the frigid air catching in my throat. Trudging around the screaming complex, I searched for a ruddy glow, or plumes of smoke, any sign that I was wrong, any sign that this alarm was valid, that the people in charge had held up their end of the bargain.

Zero. There is zero possibility that happened. There was no smoke, there was no fire, only groggy people shuffling away from the clamor into the snowy street.

The next day, the apartment management assured us that this was a one-time fluke caused by the extreme cold. I heard Ron Howard's narration in my head: "It was not a one-time fluke." Through the spring and summer every few weeks the alarm would shriek its manic aria for a few minutes, then inexplicably fall silent.

In late August when C and I were doing our final walkthrough before moving out she reminded me to reconnect the alarm wires.

3 weeks later, 1700 miles to the northeast, in our brand-new apartment, when the fire alarm went off... What are the chances that the contractor installed and commissioned the fire alarm system correctly? What are the chances that the fire marshal adequately tested the system to ensure it is doing its one job correctly?

Zero. There is zero possibility that happened. There was no fire. Of course there was no fire. 2 weeks after that, while I was on a conference call, and the fire alarm went off again, there also was no fire.

Now, having sporadic alarms is annoying to me, but I can put earplugs in or walk to the coffee shop down the street to wait it out. The cat C just brought home can't do those things. So here I am at the beginning of December, the alarm once again droning in my ears. I peer under the bed and see Max's saucer-eyes darting around, searching fruitlessly for a deeper hole to crawl into to end the terrible noise drilling into his little skull. After a brief struggle, I get him stuffed into the carrier, and we're off down the stairs and into the car. Driving away, I see plumes of water jetting from one of the balconies, freezing into a slick sheet of ice on the cold alley below. Could there actually be a fire this time? Is the fire suppression system working as intended? I turn the corner and drive about 1/2 a mile up the hill to the hospital where C is at work.

I park and open up the cat carrier; Max nervously exits and begins his circumnavigation of the new environment. On his 4th lap, apparently satisfied with his discoveries, he settles on my lap to nap away the inconvenience.

Always excited for a chance to see her cat, C joins us in the little parking lot refuge for a brief respite before returning to work. After 1/2 an hour of drowsily listening to the calming symmetry of a baroque concerto on the radio, I decide to venture back down the hill to see if it is safe to return home. As we approach, I notice a fire engine parked out front, but the sprinkler is no longer spraying and the alarm is no longer braying. As Max and I approach the front door, the alarm begins screaming again. I roll my eyes and we head back to the automotive sanctum. At this point, I'm content to indulge my adolescent penchant for stoic absurdism; Max is less amused. The next 20 minutes of waiting is substantially less cozy than our earlier experience. Eventually we make our way back to the building and find it calm; the lobby deserted, the stairwell quiet, our apartment just as I left it 3 hours earlier. I reward Max with some leftover thanksgiving turkey and we both eagerly await the return of the lady of the house, having had quite enough of each other for one day.

Sitting back onto the couch, I feel my phone buzz. It's a notification from the apartment management warning us not to drink the water from the tap because when the sprinklers go off, old water from the fire suppression system backs up into the taps. Out of curiosity, I run a glass of water from the kitchen sink. It has a rusty hue. I chuckle to myself. This is not actually a problem. We have just lived through 18 months of institutional failure, buck-passing, and betrayal of the social contract. When you live in a crumbling empire and you can’t depend on the people in charge to fulfill their responsibilities, some behaviors that would otherwise seem paranoid are excusable. Behaviors like C filling our empty apple juice jugs with water... just in case.

So was there a fire? No. Of course there was no fire. One of the sprinkler heads blew up, drenched the back half of some poor sap's apartment, and set the building's fire alarm off. Was there a fire 4 days later when the alarm went off at 1:00 am? No. No, there was no fire then either. Will I take the next fire alarm I hear seriously? There is zero possibility that will happen.

These are stories from Vermont.

Some of them are true.

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