The time I called 911 on my Carbon Monoxide Detector

I am dead. DEAD. Deceased. I died. I am hanging out with Beetlejuice, because I am so dead. That is how dead I am. Beyond dead. In fact, I am writing this postmortem. My cellphone is no longer operational, so you are going to need a Ouija board to contact my dead ass because I am floating around somewhere between being alive and the afterlife due to an untimely demise. My cause of death is not because I perished from carbon monoxide poisoning, but rather from extreme, absolute, pure embarrassment. I called 911 on my carbon monoxide detector.

I didn’t want to do it. I resisted and hesitated as long as I could. I work in customer support for crying out loud. This means I know to triage a problem from the most simple solve and work my way up to larger scale solutions as I eliminate the more probable cause. I did everything I was suppose to so there was only one thing left. Dial 911.

I am not strict enough to prescribe to dietary labels, but I tend to lean toward plant based eating. And sometimes cake based eating. And always milk tea latte eating. I cannot claim to be a vegan or even vegetarian, because I am not. But it is not often I want meat, much less to touch it and cook it at home. Oddly my Cohabituer and I both had steak and potatoes in mind. So I said, let’s boop on down to Whole Foods, grab us some fixins and have a Sunday dinner just the two of us. I am kidding. I did not say that at all. Any-who, that is what we did.

We were in the midst of pan searing the outer layers of our New York Strip (because isn’t that the only cut a resident of the city is permitted to buy) when a shrill beep sounded throughout the apartment. “Is that in here?”, I asked with confusion and moderate disbelief. After the second or third announcement we had no choice but to track down the source. From the stairwell we find our carbon monoxide detector. Oh, that is what that thing is. Neat, I guess. There was no cause before to do anything other than ignore it and clearly not even dust it. I had to brush off a thick layer of cat hair and gray lint just to read the display. Oh, like yours is any cleaner.

I guess I have to stand here until it does it again so I can see what it is trying to communicate to us. Red light. Alarm- Move to Fresh Air. Oh, boy. Is this thing for real right now?

I am super into safety. In my previous employment I anointed myself head of the safety patrol. Likely a side effect of not aspiring into getting to wear a cool, orange sash with a shiny metal badge in fifth grade that entitled me to the powers of directing parents through the carpool drop off lane. Even still I had a long pause as to should I even listen to this little machine. So what the hell am I suppose to do? I realized that the cat and the dog are smaller than people so they would be susceptible to side effects first. Reluctantly I grabbed the cat backpack and hooked the leash to Miss Dog. The cat was hiding now behind our large pull out sofa. With brutal mom strength I pushed it off the wall and grabbed her so she could be stuffed into the bag. I groaned as I gathered my keys, phone, and wallet.

When assembled outside I started Googling. Would cooking cause the carbon monoxide detector to go off? We have gas not an electric range. So okay, possibly yes. Alright, if it goes off what are the next steps for NYC residents? Move outside, call 911, and poison control. Yeahhhh, noooo. I am just going call the Super.

I had to scroll through upward of three thousand photos between now and when I signed the lease. I should have just saved this somewhere. I had been trying not to bother the super and landlord too much as that can be motivation for rent to be raised and pricing out annoying tenants. This seems like it is not going to stop and they should be consulted. I started texting my friends at this point, too. I was met with a barrage of advice to do something, be proactive, call 911, take this seriously… I’m outside. What else do ya want?

My first call to the Super ever, instead of an email to the repairs contact address, results in a voice mail.

Uhhh, hi. It’s ## W. 8# th Street, Apartment #. The carbon monoxide detector is going off and saying to move outside. So we did. I mean, we are cooking, but it won’t stop. We have the windows open. All two of them. It’s probably not an emergency, I am not sure. Anyway, I thought I should let you know. The next step according to NY Health is to call 911 but I don’t want to. Um. Okay, bye.

I am really hungry. I wonder if we should finish cooking, eating, and then continue to deal with this? The phone rings, it is the Super calling back. He seems ever so slightly amused.

He doesn’t say it, but it is like: Lady, you’re cooking with a gas stove in a tiny apartment. Of course it is gonna do this. What do ya want, huh?

Now go back and read that with a New Yorker accent for full affect. I will wait. And then realize he doesn’t actually sound like that but it is so much better to imagine he does. He instructs me me to open the windows, reset the meter and change the batteries if needed. I keep blathering that it is not the low battery light to no one listening. Similarly, Cohabiteur keeps insisting this is not the first time we cooked in the apartment. Shoulda just ordered delivery tonight.

See? The Super thinks it is fine. I want food. Let’s eat.

Foolishly we go back inside and eat. After dinner, Cohabituer darts off to buy batteries convinced this will make all the noisy problems go away. Twelve dollars later we conduct our test. Nada. Nothing. Zilch. Still beeping.

I suggest to Cohabiteur to maybe take the meter outside for a nice, romantic walk in the fresh air since at this point we have the thing unhooked from the wall. Apparently it does not need to hooked to the wall. Who knew? Outside it beeped less than before but it still will not shut up.

This is reminding me so much of the Friends episode of Phoebe and her smoke detector from hell that she tried to throw down the trash shoot but still made noise. It did not solve it then and it did not solve it now. Television and real life match up.

I am now rationalizing that the machine is defective if it does not even like the outside air. Cohabituer and I are in disagreement of our findings.

But Cohabituer is worried and says, well, I hope we all wake up tomorrow. Ugggggh. I do not want to be responsible right now. I do not want to call 911. But it is the only way to get another reading and to know once and for all if we are in peril. As he urges me to call I offer that he is welcome to do it. He argues that I am a much better speaker and that I will explain the situation better than he will. He deepens his voice and mimics his call, “uhhh, our carbon monoxide detector is going off. We’re dead.”

I tell him that he has to recite that for me no less than three as I dial or I am not calling. I sigh heavily and press 911. I am connected to the 911 operator and then the Fire Department for my borough. I try to elegantly explain that this is not an emergency and we just need a reading from them to be certain. Dispatch and the lead fire representative are collecting my information in a routine manner despite my elucidation. They hang up. What? What does that mean? Cohabituer thinks I should call back and I am adamant that I will not. They have my number. If they need me or want me… they’ll call.

We go back outside, cat in backpack, dog on leash. We are standing on the curb and I am getting flustered. Oh my god. Do I hear a fire truck? No. It’s just a bus. Good. I am agitated, fidgeting, sighing. We keep waiting. I just know that we are going to be a report on the Citizen app tonight: carbon monoxide leak. Now we can hear the sirens, the whirs of the fire engines nearing our street. Soon the limestone townhouses glow red as not one, but two fire engines pull in front of our apartment. I cannot stop covering my face with my hands. I am uncomfortable, more than I have been in a long time.

Not much embarrasses me the way others get with things like public speaking, tripping, waving a tampon around, dancing like a dork for all to see, having an outburst, my skirt being tucked into my underwear and giving a show for the last half hour, misspeaking and blurting some kind of overtly sexy Freudian comment whilst in a highly inappropriate situation. Not a blush. Nothing. Cool as a cucumber. I am a clown. But have me call 911 and ask the fire department come to verify something that probably needs to be checked out… I am dying from the inside out.

Four or five people from the neighboring building were getting into their car when the trucks pulled up so we clued them in on what was going down. They were sweet to encourage the steps we took and assured us this type of thing needs to be checked out. No less than ten fire persons in large yellow coats and red hard hats dutifully march toward the front door. One by one they pass me each carrying an ax, pick, or some other type of bludgeoning device. They prop open the front door and start their inspection. I start to over explain the steps we took to another member of the squad up to this point and that we weren’t sure if there was any carbon monoxide and that I am so embarrassed and so sorry for bothering them. I all but pleaded not to arrest us for making a false report. We can hear the beeping of the meter from the sidewalk as I continue my diatribe.

A few minutes later they come back out and deliver the results. They did not detect any carbon monoxide. They found that our meters expired in 2011. When the photo sensor finally goes out this occurs and it is ultimately broken. They removed the meter and the freshly changed batteries and left the pieces dismantled on our kitchen table. The only thing left to do was to get new detectors. I am  dreading tell my landlord.

NYFD informed me that calling was the right choice and the only way to know for sure. They assured me they get this type of thing all the time. They were truly graceful in this matter whereas, I was not. Half the time my hands were still covering my face.

After much hoopla we went back inside with peace of mind. My mortification would take another hour to wear off. But at least I have a cool story to tell about that time I called 911 on my carbon monoxide detector. Oh, and I am still dead.