It's Alarming

I crawled out of bed at around 8:30 this morning -- something that hasn’t ceased to amaze me in the month I’ve been here. Instead of jet-lagging its way through the time adjustment, my body clock has remained true to its own settings. In Nashville, I usually rise around 10 or 10:30. Here, it’s 8 or 8:30. Maybe if I jumped another couple of time zones west and I’ll be able to get up at 6 or 6:30 and work a day job. Of course, I’m not sure in which country I’d be living at that point. Right now I’m envisioning a small island in shark-infested waters. And it's not hiring. But I digress….

Within minutes of my crawling out of bed, the smoke alarm sounds. I check the apartment – all clear – then grab a chair so that I can check the alarm battery. As I climb up to look, I realize the alarm isn’t the sound’s source, another small device near it is. On this device is a simple but effective drawing: a stick figure in motion down a staircase away from a fire. Evacuate. I don’t see or smell smoke when I open the apartment door, but identical devices are shouting and blinking across the building. I grab a pair of shoes, my keys, and a jacket before I exit the building wearing a pair of men’s plaid pajama pants, a T-shirt that’s two sizes too big, and an ankle brace. My hair isn’t combed, my teeth aren’t brushed, and my face – dear God – hasn’t been painted. I look like a street urchin, but I can’t be the only bed-headed, pajama-wearer disturbed by this alarm… can I?

As I make my way to ground level, I expect a small crowd of worried residents to be gathering, questioning where the fire could be, how much damage it will do, and how quickly we’ll be allowed back in; but there’s no one outside. A nearby building is also blinking and screeching. The two aren’t connected, so it’s probably a false alarm, but, better safe that sorry; I wait for the all-clear. Only two people join me in the courtyard before the alarm is quieted. They are both men and both dressed, so when I say “join me in the courtyard” I mean “exit the building to a safe place a good 100 yards away from me.”

I often wonder just what the people who actually live in this apartment complex do for a living. Whatever it is, it pays. A lot. As I stand in a light rain watching them leave for work in tailored suits, I wonder what they think about the unkempt girl standing there in her jammies and a leather jacket. No one makes eye-contact. Maybe they think I’m going to ask for their spare change. I feel conspicuous, embarrassed, not being showered and shaved and headed to work until I realize that these well-kempt folks are probably headed to a 16-hour work day to afford an apartment they’ll spend very little waking time in. As soon as the alarm stops, I go upstairs, start a pot of coffee, and put my feet up. I think I’ll watch Columbo. In my jammies.