For a long time, when we still smoked cigarettes, Rod and I had a makeshift living room in our garage. Complete with a TV, two chairs, and an ashtray, every night we would retreat to the garage after Van went to bed. Once we both quit smoking (me in April 2018 and Rod the following fall), we moved our alternative living space to our unfinished basement which now looks a lot like my first off-campus house in college, faded tapestry and all. Our actual living room, which is decorated to perfection and includes a 60-inch TV, is not in use after Van goes to bed because of its proximity to his room. We’re a loud lot, Rod and I, and our banter and laughter would simply keep the little guy up all night. The basement, then, is where we hang out most nights and we actually enjoy it quite a bit.
In the basement last Friday night around 11:30 p.m., in the middle of an episode of “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel,” I heard a noise so odd I asked Rod to pause the show in the middle of a Maisel set at the Gaslight. I turned my attention toward the sound that was coming from behind me and noticed sparks and small flames erupting near our washer and dryer which hadn’t been used in several days. We quickly got up, grabbed the fire extinguisher, doused every square inch of our ancient appliances, put out the fire, turned off the power to the outlet, unplugged the dryer, turned on a fan to air out the smoke, grabbed a “what-a-relief” beer, and went back to Mrs. Maisel’s set. Less than ten minutes was all it took to circumvent a complete and total catastrophe. Ten. Minutes.
Two days later, my Dad, a union electrician and retired electrical inspector, came over to assess the damage. Within two hours, he had replaced the damaged electrical outlet, fixed our 30-year-old dryer, and determined the fire was the result of a leak coming from the kitchen sink above. Two days after that, a trusty plumber came to fix the leak and install a new kitchen faucet. In total, including parts, labor, and a new (rechargeable) fire extinguisher, the entire ordeal cost a mere $450.
With all this good fortune in terms of timing and cost, I can’t help but “what if” this situation to death. What if we hadn’t quit smoking and moved our surrogate living room to our basement? What if we weren’t downstairs watching TV? What if we didn’t have a fire extinguisher? What if I didn’t have an electrician as a father? What if a dear colleague hadn’t recommended a good plumber? What if our entire house had burned to the ground? What if we were sleeping? What if we couldn’t have gotten everyone out in time? What if one of us died hours after the fire due to smoke inhalation? What if we never got a chance to finish that episode of Mrs. Maisel? What. The. Fuck. If?
I’ve only told a handful of people this story since it happened, which is a pretty big deal for me seeing as how I have a blog and literally write and/or talk about myself all the time. I suppose I’ve been particularly wary about sharing this story out of fear a fluke electrical fire might happen again or that something horrible and completely unforeseen will actually come to fruition the next time around. “You can’t think like that,” said the colleague who recommended the plumber. “It’s over, you acted, and now you move on.”
But I’m much too cerebral for that line of thinking. I also can’t just chalk it up to “being blessed” or to “someone watching over us.” Because, while I understand the sentiment, I’m also struck with a myriad of memories that lead me to believe I was in the right place at the right time because I’ve been putting all the right fire vibes into the universe for as long as I can remember.
See, as the daughter of an electrician who is also an expert in all things fire safety, I’ve been trained my entire life to be suspicious of candles, respect space heaters, notice (and distrust) overloaded circuitry, religiously check smoke detectors, and identify unsafe wiring. In fact, I once left a house party in college because the basement was too crowded, wires were hanging from the ceiling, and every light, stereo, and speaker was plugged into the same outlet without a surge protector in sight. No way was I dying in my early 20s in a puddle of jungle juice. No effing way.
There’s also the time I called my Dad from a bar in the city where he served as an electrical inspector to tell him about a clogged vent in the lady’s restroom I thought he may want to take a look at. I mean, honestly, who does that?
So, while yes, I was in fact in the right place at the right time, I’m absolutely convinced our presence in the basement last weekend was the universe’s way of rewarding me for a lifetime of respect for (and fear of) electricity. It also could have had something to do with my Dad and the universe sparing his only daughter from an electrical fire. He’s a really good person and an excellent electrician after all, and I just can’t see the universe doing him like that either. I’m also quite sure the book Van and I just read about Nikola Tesla may have helped our cause, too.
While I realize karma is a much more philosophical discussion better had over drinks in a properly wired and ventilated bar, I also think celebrating karma by simply sharing this story is important too. It exists, I think, in a VERY real way, and the fact that Rod and I were able to finish that episode of Mrs. Maisel within minutes of putting out a fire in our basement is proof of it. Now put that on your plate…
Title Track: “Burning Down the House,” Talking Heads. Listen here.
