I am a chronic apologist. As someone who values personal space, both physically and metaphysically, I am always wary of being in peoples’ way or taking up too much of their time. While certainly not a becoming quality, and one I continually vow to quit, I never really thought of it as anything more than a harmless, quirky habit. Until now. Now it has become life threatening.
It’s a Saturday night, a few weeks ago. As my husband and I prepare for a night on the town, and by a night on the town I mean take our dog for a walk, the distinct smell of smoke wafts through the air.
“Do you smell smoke?” my husband asks astutely.
As we follow the fetid scent down the stairs, we see plumes of thick smoke foraging across our basement, swathing the unfinished walls and ceiling. We stare in horror, backing away as it begins to flood the stairwell. Smothering our mouths with our shirtsleeves we exchange muffled coughs. The dog barks at the oncoming smoke and then ceremoniously pees on the floor. Even the cat momentarily stirs from her slumbers. We become frantic, trying to identify the cause but it’s impossible to see through the clouding haze.
It occurs to me that I should call the fire department, that my house going up in flames falls precisely within the fire department’s domain, but I don’t call them. I couldn’t possibly. They’re busy people with a hard job and I really don’t want to bother them. Our best friends recently moved in across the street and instead I call them to ask for their advice. As Joel cautiously enters, it takes him very little time to confirm that, yes, there indeed seems to be large amounts of smoke emanating from our basement and progressing rapidly through our home.
“Why the hell haven’t you called the fire department?” he asks.
I feel that the state of our uncompleted basement is equivalent to being in a car accident while wearing unattractive underwear, a situation which my mother always cautioned against, but as the smoke continues to close in I relent, and finally dial 911.
“What type of emergency is it?” asks the dispatcher.
“Well I wouldn’t really call it an emergency,” I say. “I mean, we’re all okay, there just seems to be a lot of smoke in our house, but it’s really no big deal.”“That’s a fire emergency Ma’am.”
I am horrified. I have before now always been a Miss. When did I become a Ma’am? My thoughts are quickly interrupted as the dispatcher instructs me to get everyone out of the house immediately and wait outside for help.
“Really,” I say, “we don’t need a lot of resources diverted here. It’s really not necessary. I am sure just your smallest truck will do.”
“Ma’am I am going to need you and everyone else to get out of the house.”
With our cat and dog under each arm, I begrudgingly leave the house with my husband in toe.
“I really hope they don’t have the sirens on,” says my husband.
Within seconds, we are dizzy from the wailing blare of six fire trucks which have made a train along our narrow street. A police car flies up onto our lawn and the officers dramatically jump out.
The entire neighbourhood is outside watching as the men from my colleagues desk calendar run inside our house, albeit wearing slightly more gear.
I immediately begin to apologize to everyone for the ruckus. I apologize to all the neighbours for blocking the street. I apologize to the woman next door with whom we share a wall for the terrible smell. I apologize to Joel for interrupting the hockey game. I apologize to the firemen for the mess in our basement. I apologize to the policemen for having to attend. I apologize to my cat for waking her up. I even make a mental note to apologize to my father for the police car having ruined the flowerbed he helped me plant.
“You know,” my husband says, “you are allowed to exist.” He walks away. My cheeks begin to flame.
The trucks finally begin to depart one by one and as they do, the crowd slowly dissolves. The firemen clear us to come home, having identified a rubber band in our washing machine as the source of the fire. But I don’t want to go home. I sit on the curb, sandwiched between the dog and cat, feeling no relief at all. I feel small. I wonder if I could light a match, hold it to myself and smoke my neurotic antics right out of me. I would set my spirit ablaze, watch it smoulder into powdery ashes and like the phoenix, I would rise, confident and self-assured-a girl who calls emergency services when she is having an emergency. I hate my submissiveness. I hate that I’m meek. I hate it.
Hugging my knees I turn my head and look up at my husband. I meet his gaze, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry”
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