We hear it all the time: how would you
really react in a moment of crisis? Would you react sensibly or
would you do things that you would heartily scoff at in a calmer,
more deliberative moment? Are you really prepared to act in a
rational, constructive manner when all your instincts are flailing
around in total chaos? I remember a few years ago watching in
abject horror as Mojo dove into the ocean to confront a shark as the
saner dogs and people scampered in the opposite direction. As Mojo
mounted the shark and rode on the back astride the dorsal fin, I
found myself marching into the water armed with my “chuckit,”
the device I use to hurl tennis balls far out into the ocean for Mojo
to retrieve. In that moment of crisis, I foolheartedly concluded the
chuckit was the ultimate anti-shark weapon and went into the surf to
do battle. Stupid, ill-conceived, not helpful. Fortunately, the
shark was as freaked out as I was and made haste to return to deeper
waters leaving Mojo behind wondering where his ride went.
But, Saturday morning presented a
different sort of events. For a couple of weeks, Lily and I had been
hearing odd, loud puffing noises coming from the kitchen. For some
totally inexplicable reason, we both attributed these noises to a new
device we had which makes club soda with the assistance of a bottle
of compressed gas. These air gun-like sounds were surely emanating
from this new fangled kitchen gizmo. On a couple of occasions, we
even went so far as to take the device outside thinking that if it
were to explode at least it would be outside where the harm would be
less traumatizing. Sadly, we were mistaken, and hugely so. The club
soda device had been improperly accused and was blameless. At ten
past seven, when even Mojo is still asleep, the loud puffing noise
re-appeared, but this time in earnest. It awakened me with a start.
Why? Because the now more urgent puffing actually blew open our
bedroom door! In a stupor, I went to the door thinking that maybe it
was our guest, young 6 year old Marley – our niece – visiting for
a week from Florida. Maybe Marley had gotten up early and had opened
our door just to see if we were awake yet. I went out of the room
and, thinking I was looking for Marley, headed to the kitchen.
There, everything changed. As I stumbled into the kitchen, still
half asleep, the smell of gas was overpowering, and it was not the
kind that emanates from a club soda making machine. It was the gas
cooktop. How did I know? Even in my stupor I could see that the
cabinet doors below the cooktop had been blown open and there,
underneath, were large blue flames shooting out left and right from
the junction box like some kind of demonized, blue-haired Medusa.
What to do? They say that the mind
sharpens in its most trying moments. I'm not so sure. Coming out of
my stupor at warp speed, my first instinct was to go for the fire
extinguisher which, naturally, was buried somewhere in one of our
kitchen closets. Hadn't seen it in years let alone have any notion
of how to operate it. As I turned toward the closet, seemingly a
thousand micro-thoughts crossed my brain: do I immediately awaken
everyone in the house and get them out; do I put in a quick emergency
call to the fire department; do I just try to blow out the arching
flames; do I try to smother the flames; do I have time to read the
fire extinguisher instructions should I find the damn device; how
many seconds or minutes did we have until the house exploded; do I
scream?
Somewhere in the midst of this frenetic
exercise in weighing my options, my mind screamed at me, “turn the
gas off, stupid”!! Of course, kill the problem at the source. The
source in this case is a propane tank that sits outside our house,
seemingly miles away in those frozen seconds that I thought could
spell the difference between life and death. Clothed in nothing more
than my underwear, I sprinted for the door, threw it open, descended
the steps and ran around to the side of the house to the tank. I
opened its lid and – not having much experience with this mechanism
either – looked quizzically and impatiently at the various knobs on
top in urgent search of the main shut off valve. I figured which one
it should be, turned it viciously, and then spun around to make my
way back into the kitchen. Bursting through the door again, I saw
instantly that the flames were still having their way, snaking their
way around the kitchen cabinet beneath the cooktop. Why, I thought.
Had I turned the wrong valve? Do I run out there again? Do I hunt
for the fire extinguisher this time?
Don't ask me why, but I decided the
better course was for me to dive my head into the endangered,
flame-filled cabinet and attempt to blow the flames out. Maybe the
flames were still thriving solely on whatever remnants of gas
remained in the lines and could be subdued as one might blow out a
match. A very large match. I dropped to my knees, stuck my head
into the inferno and started blowing. Only later did I reflect on
this strategy and, as I have in the past, said to myself: stupid, ill
conceived, not helpful. Certainly, this would have been the case had
the system decided to explode in my face in that moment, but, then
again, I wouldn't have been around to hear the scorn heaped upon me
for making such a misguided judgment. Once again, we never know how
we're going to react in those moments of crisis. One tries to be
level headed, but being level headed is often a function of
dispassionate analysis – a luxury, methinks, at times.
As luck would have it, my efforts at a
manual solution worked. I got the flames to stop. I stared at the
junction box certain it would ignite again. I waited. And,
blessedly, nothing followed. Just the sounds of my gasping for
breath, something I believe I had neglected to do in the previous
minutes.
At this point, I returned to the
bedroom where a still sleepy Lily listened in horror to my little
drama. Marley, in the next bedroom was wonderfully oblivious to all
that had transpired. Mojo wondered what the hold up was in heading
for the beach.
I walked to the beach with Mojo still
shaken, still wondering what might have happened. I second guessed
almost everything I did.
Upon our return from the beach, I found
the fire extinguisher, found a readily accessible place for it,
and read its instructions. Now, that's something smart, well
conceived, and helpful.
