One a.m. in Park Slope. We’re dead to the world sleeping. Well, I am. And Cara is likely thinking of beating me with a shoe due to snoring. Then….
KABLAMMO!!!!
Something explodes. And a smoke alarm starts going off. Somewhere. Trying not to have a heart attack and wishing I hadn’t spent the afternoon at a friend’s eating red beans and rice and drinking bourbon, I pulled on some jeans and a t-shirt and flip flops.
I ran into the backyard. Looked up, down and all around. Nothing. Just the infernal beeping of that smoke detector (which actually gives the smaller of the dogs fits). Went through the apartment out onto the street. Looked up, down and all around. Nothing. Just that infernal beep…
Well, the smoke detector stopped before I could even figure out where it came from. Sound travels funny in our neighborhood. It sounded as loud in the front as it had in the back. It could have been coming from our building or three buildings over.
I walked up the stairs in our apartment building. Listening at each door. Seemed no one was awake. No lights on. No smoke. No funny smells. Went back down and listened to the basement door as if it would tell me something. No sounds from down there. The door wasn’t hot. No smoke. Walked back outside again. Back yard. Nothing. Front. Nothing.
No one yelling anywhere. No sirens. No nothing. I swear if Cara hadn’t heard it too I’d be questioning the whole thing today, wondering if I’d dreamed it all.
KEN WHEATON 