Mr. Unavailables #129 through #132: Firemen

Vital Stats: Firemen. Need I say more?

It was a Sunday afternoon and Zoe and I were slowly sorting out the disaster of my apartment when the smoke detector went off. Or at least we thought it was the smoke detector until we fanned it with pillows and it didn’t stop beeping. I climbed up on my ladder and pulled it off the wall to find it was actually a carbon monoxide detector. A guide on the back described three different patterns of beeps—one for a low battery, one for a malfunction and one for carbon monoxide.

After we listened a couple of times, we knew we were listening to the pattern for carbon monoxide. I had an extra battery in the refrigerator, so in a last-ditch effort to not call 911, we swapped it out. It was the same pattern. In a second last-ditch effort to not call 911, I called 311 and explained the situation.

“Hi. I have a carbon monoxide detector that’s going off and I’m sure it’s nothing but it’s making the beeping pattern for carbon monoxide.”

“Please hold while I switch you to 911,” the operator said. So much for avoiding 911.

The 911 operator asked for my address and then said emergency services were en route.

“OK,” I said. I hung up and told Zoe they were on their way.

“Actually, I kind of do have a headache,” she said.

“Actually, so do I,” I said.

“Maybe there really is gas,” she said.

Forgetting that I could be inhaling toxic fumes, I looked around my apartment and realized that actual firemen were going to be walking into my apartment any second. If I wanted any kind of a future with one of my would-be rescuers, I was about to make a very bad impression. I began throwing laundry and other clutter into closets and vacant crevices. Two minutes later, the buzzer rang. “Hello,” I answered casually.

“Fire department.”

“Fourth floor,” I said, buzzing them in as if they were suitors.

Thirty seconds later, I led an entourage of four fully equipped firefighters into my apartment.

I’ve always wondered if firemen were just coincidentally hot or if it was just something about the uniforms that just made them all look hot. The first two to walk in were older. Not hot. The second two were younger. Hot. They looked around as if Zoe and I had just invited them upstairs after a double date. They were taking everything in, including, I hoped, us.

“Hi,” I said to the second not-hot one as the first not-hot one passed me. I handed the first one the detector. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I called 311 first, but they transferred it to 911.”

“I’ve got zero parts per million,” the first not-hot one said as he pressed a button on a gadget.

“We tried two different batteries and it was definitely making the beeping for the carbon monoxide,” I said.

“Yeah, sometimes these things just malfunction,” the second not-hot one said.

“Sorry about that,” I said again.

“That’s OK,” the first not-hot one said as they turned to go. “Usually it happens at three in the morning.”

The not-hot ones went out the door and the hot ones took one last look around before they went out.

“Thanks a lot. Sorry!” I said. The hot ones turned as if to say good-bye, then, as if thinking better of it, turned back and disappeared down the stairs.

“Well, that was exciting,” I said to Zoe as I closed the door behind them.

"Yeah, and we thought we were feeling sick from gas," she said, giggling.

As she said it, something dawned on me. Usually one to play with her hair and bat her eyelashes when masculinity was in proximity, Zoe had not only never moved from her spot on the sofa but she’d also never said a word.

“Did you even say anything?” I asked her.

“No, I sat here like a perfect angel,” she said, and then she laughed diabolically and ran her hands through some low strands of hair.

She looked at me. “Wait, wasn’t your hair up and didn’t you have your glasses on?”

Oh, that. In the moments before I opened the door, I ditched my scrunchy and my glasses in the bathroom and gave my hair a tousle.

She cackled. “You removed your glasses and took down your hair,” she said, pointing at me.

"You didn't even try to flirt with them," I said, pointing back. “And those second two were cute....”

As the words came out of my mouth, I temporarily forgot that avoiding a carbon monoxide disaster was a good thing and, for a moment, lamented what could have been.

Signs of Hope: For the two hot ones: Clearly, they were intrigued in some way.

Red Flags: Even if they hadn’t been there purely on business, it had all happened so fast that I didn’t even think to ask which firehouse they’d come from.

Turning Point: When the first not-hot one said the words, “zero parts per million,” it eliminated all hope of a possible rescue.

Diagnosis: As far as the hot ones go...I’m not sure about their availability, but, if they see this, they should really let us know.