How Many Firefighters Does It Take?

Operator: 9-1-1. What’s your emergency?

Me: Hi, this is not an emergency. Do you have a non-emergency line?

Operator: I take those calls, too. What’s going on?

Me: I’m so embarrassed to call, but I don’t know what else to do. I’m in an Airbnb and the smoke alarm’s been going off for three hours. The host won’t respond. Airbnb won’t respond. And it’s 20 feet high on the ceiling and I don’t have a ladder.

Operator: Do you see smoke or smell smoke?

Me: No. No smoke.

Operator: No problem. I’ll send the fire department.

Me: Really, I just need one guy with a ladder whenever he has a minute. I’m so sorry. I feel ridiculous.

Operator: I’ve got you, ma’am.

The beep-beep-beep... PAUSE... beep-beep-beep... PAUSE began at 6 a.m. I was so dead asleep I thought I dreamt it. Then it happened again at 6:45. I tried to unplug my phone to record it, but I got tangled in my CPAP hose. No, I’m not joking. And no, I’m no longer sexy at 53. Sad times.

By the time I had both eyes open, the beeping had subsided. I walked through the apartment looking for whatever might’ve caused the noise but found nothing obvious.

All quiet on the southern front.

Despite six hours of plane delays, a lightning storm that triggered flash flood warnings on our phones, and the fact that we couldn’t actually find the entrance to our Airbnb at 11 p.m. in the pouring rain, my daughter and I were excited about our trip to Knoxville. She’s here for a summer intensive at the University of Tennessee. I’m working remotely so she isn’t alone if anything goes sideways.

She gets the parental safety net. I get to explore a new city.

Added bonus: my college roommate is meeting me here for a few days.

I came into this trip heavy on the positivity.

But Knoxville is doing its level best to break my spirit.

Maybe Knoxville’s campaign against me actually began in Chicago.

Despite a 40-minute no-reason delay, the flight attendants assured us United would hold our connection. So we ran. We ran through O’Hare like we’d never run before. With the bags. With the backpack. Yes, with the CPAP bouncing off my hip every third stride.

Sweaty and winded, we reached Gate G14 with ten minutes to spare. Our plane was still there, suctioned to the jetway.

We had made it.

Except the boarding door was closed.

No gate agent.

No United employee.

Nobody.

We knocked on the glass. We peered through the windows. I banged on the locked metal door loud enough that I briefly wondered if airport security was going to arrest me.

Nothing.

For ten minutes we stood there staring at the plane we were supposed to be on while not a single United employee appeared. Eventually the jetway pulled away, the plane pushed back, and off it went without us.

We missed our connection while standing about twenty feet from it.

Next flight?

Five hours…then six.

We waited, trying to keep our spirits up despite our dinner reservation in downtown Knoxville being ruined and our plans to tour campus at sunset being dashed.

Our luggage, meanwhile, had arrived in Knoxville right on schedule.

By the time we got there, however, it had been locked away in an unmanned room. We waited another 40 minutes for someone to come unlock it.

In the meantime, I’d gone to Alamo to get our rental.

Despite the wait, the rental wasn’t ready.

Another twenty minutes.

Then, oh...what’s this?

This isn’t the car I rented. It’s twice the size.

I can’t get the seat high enough for my short-girl preference.

Who cares? We’re exhausted. We’ll make the best of it.

It’s pouring.

Lightning. Rain. Darkness. Unfamiliar roads. No plug for CarPlay. Dry contacts. I squint. I blink.

We miraculously arrive.

Where do we park?

We find a paid lot.

We drag our bags to the rental address.

But where’s the door with the lock I’m supposed to put the code into?

No door.

No lock.

No idea what’s going on.

I revisit the instructions on my nearly dead phone.

“Go to the alley. Find the Yale lock.”

We spy a shady-looking alley.

I leave the bags and scout it out.

I find the lock. The code doesn’t work.

I try again. And again.

On the fifth attempt it finally clicks open.

We practically fall inside, relief washing over us.

The place is cute.

We’re too tired to appreciate it.

We crash out, dead to the world.

A tap-dancing kid playing with lead balls in the apartment above us yanks me awake at 7 a.m. He then starts practicing Olympic sprints. Maybe the high jump. Definitely the hammer throw.

I shower.

The water pressure is mediocre, but at least I’ve washed the travel off me.

My daughter is still asleep.

I notice the bedrooms have no windows, just wall mirrors that look like windows. I feel fooled.

She’ll sleep until noon in that cave if I don’t wake her.

She grumbles, but eventually gets vertical.

We head out for breakfast.

It’s raining.

They seat us outside.

My hair immediately boings into a bouffant.

I surrender and twist it into a bun.

The French toast bites are delicious.

The coffee is hot.

The h-anger subsides.

We feel human again.

We don’t have umbrellas, so we dart between awnings and trees before finally giving up and driving to CVS to buy some.

On the way back, I pass an inert car blocking the road.

The driver suddenly decides to make a U-turn directly into my back bumper.

We exchange insurance information.

He has Uber passengers in the back.

My rental has no damage.

His Kia Soul has a scratch.

I briefly wonder if he’ll try some insurance shenanigans.

I don’t have time for the police.

We move my daughter into her dorm for the week.

She’s nervous.

She’s never been away from us for seven days before.

Her roommate moves out before they even meet.

Her room is the only one on the floor without air conditioning.

A maintenance request is submitted.

A room change is denied.

A new roommate is found.

We head to Target with another mom and her daughter, who were also promised a private bathroom only to discover they’d been assigned a communal hall bath.

We’re all unprepared.

We need flip-flops.

Toiletry caddies.

Snacks.

Water.

The girls are excited in the way sixteen-year-old girls can be excited about absolutely everything.

I hear a lot of “Same!” and “Bro!”

They’re bonding.

The mom and I exchange phone numbers on the sidewalk afterward.

We admit neither of our daughters has ever slept away from home for a full week.

We reassure each other they’ll be fine. Then we drive away pretending we believe ourselves.

I wander aimlessly through the local supermarket, fascinated that you enter using an escalator.

I pick up a few things, including a sandwich. That’ll be dinner.

I head “home.”

I unload my groceries and decide to explore on foot.

Where am I? What’s around here?

I stroll. I buy an ice cream cone. I snap photos of street art.

I spy more clouds rolling in. Lightning flashes in the distance. Time to head back.

Thunder rolls. My phone screams **FLASH FLOOD WARNING!**

Every Tennessean I’ve met insists they never have weather like this. Of course they don’t.

I feel a headache coming on. Probably the barometric pressure.

I get in bed. I disintegrate into sleep.

Beep-beep-beep... PAUSE... beep-beep-beep... PAUSE. It’s 6 a.m. I’m delerious. Nothing seems on fire. I doze back off.

Again, the beeping. It’s 6:45.

I’m up. I wait until 7:30 to hunt down coffee.

I walk past Awaken Coffee three times trying to figure out where the GPS is directing me. Their sandwich board is pointing in the wrong direction. I fix it before going inside.

I ask the barista to make me whatever’s most popular.

The half-sweet Honey Bear Latte is delicious.

I sip it without a lid, sitting in a worn leather chair.

I’m nearly alone with just one other woman in the whole space.

She’s typing. Otherwise, it’s completely silent.

I find myself marveling at the soaring ceilings and endless square footage. This kind of real estate doesn’t exist where I’m from. Not anymore.

How many cups of coffee do they have to sell to afford rent?

I walk back to the apartment.

I work for about an hour. Then I get bored.

I stare at the exposed brick walls and start thinking about the beauty of decay.

I write a Substack piece.

Then I work some more.

Until I’m bored again.

I go for another walk.

I wander into a boutique, buy a few things.

Then I duck into an old-fashioned pharmacy with a soda counter.

I order an egg cream. I think of my grandmother and her soda shop.

The soda jerk plops a scoop of ice cream into it—vanilla bean specks and all. We talk about the regional differences in egg creams.

His name is Rio, which feels exactly right for an Italian man making old-fashioned egg creams.

It’s a Monday and it’s slow. We chat.

Somehow, past jobs and city candy shoppes and 9/11 come up.

It gets unexpectedly heavy. He apologizes. I wave it off.

A woman walks in carrying a box of cookies for the patrons of her upcoming food tour. She asks Rio to hold them for her.

“Only for you, Doris,” he says and promises not to eat them.

Then he winks.

Maybe Knoxville isn’t trying to destroy me after all.

I finish my drink before I overstay my welcome. I bid them farewell.

Outside, it’s raining again.

My purple Totes umbrella is doing its best.

My flip-flops are slippery. I duck into a doorway to wait it out. I give up after five minutes.

The bottoms of my jeans are soaked.

I’m protecting my paper shopping bag as I gingerly make my way down the hill.

Back at the apartment, I try working again.

My daughter calls.

Her room is still seventy-eight stagnant degrees.

I call the university. I’m on hold forever.

Just as they’re opening a second maintenance request, she beeps back in.

“It’s on!”

Hallelujah. The air conditioning is alive.

I can hear girls giggling in the background.

One crisis down.

I turn back to work.

At exactly 4:40...BEEP-BEEP-BEEP. PAUSE. BEEP-BEEP-BEEP. PAUSE.

I count.

Five rounds.

It usually stops after five.

Now six.

Seven.

Ten.

Twenty.

It’s not stopping.

The sound is absolutely piercing. I hurts my ears all the way down into my throat.

I dig out my earplugs and shove them in.

I text the hosts, Dylan and Suzanne, again.

I notice they’ve finally responded to my 6:45 a.m. message.

“Please take a photo of the alarm.”

For reference, my original text read:

“Hey, there’s an alarm that went off at 6 and again at 6:45. Any idea what that might’ve been?”

No answer. Just a request for a photo…of a sound.

By 5:15 the alarm is still screaming.

At 6 p.m. I bail. I can’t take it anymore. My ears hurt.

I head out to get dinner.

Restaurant number one? Closed.

Restaurant number two? Also closed.

Apparently Mondays are culinarily challenged around here.

I fold and head to Cava.

I park. Run inside. Order. Leave. Nine minutes, if that.

As I’m driving away, the windshield wipers suddenly come on by themselves and a piece of paper flutters away.

I stop, back up, get out, pick it up, Parking ticket.

It looks suspiciously like a CVS receipt, except it includes a photo of my license plate and a demand for thirty dollars. Payable by QR code.

Was there a meter maid hiding in the bushes outside Cava? Why does Knoxville hate me? Southern hospitality my foot.

I park back at the apartment.I seriously consider not paying it. It’s a rental, after all.

Then Jiminy Cricket pipes up.

(For those of you unfamiliar with JC, he’s your conscience.)

I pay the damn thirty dollars. I look for a comment section during the transaction, but there isn’t one. For obvious reasons. No one’s saying, Wow, this parking ticket experience has been lovely.

Then I tear the ticket into tiny little pieces and blow both them and all the bad juju into the garbage. I vanquish the demons. Knoxville had better turn this thing around.

I can still hear the beep-beep-beep from the parking lot.

It’s been three hours. I don’t want to go back inside. My eardrums can’t handle any more.

I spot a two-inch-by-two-inch handwritten note taped to the apartment door.

“Maintenance will come fix the beep.”

When? How? No further details.

I can’t eat dinner in the kitchen. Or the living room. The beeping is maddening.

So I close the bedroom door. Then the closet door. I’m now a closet eater. Literally.

My husband suggests I call the police.

“How much longer can you let this go? It’s going to be nighttime soon.”

I call.

No sooner do I hang up than I hear knocking.

I crawl out of the closet and answer the door.

Me: Hello?

Him: Hi. I’m the owner.

Me: Dylan?

Him: No.

Me: Well you’re not Suzanne…

Him: No, definitely not. I’m Mark.

Me: Is Dylan your brother or something?

Him: Dylan and Suzanne don’t actually exist.

Apparently I’d spent the last two days texting fictional characters.

He explains that the property management company uses aliases so guests think they’re talking directly to the owners.

This will make me mad later.

Right now, I’m too busy being mad at the noise.

Me: I called the fire department.

Sirens echo in the distance.

Me: I think that’s them now.

We both turn as two very large, very loud fire engines pull up to the curb. The owner disappears around the corner.

One by one, firefighters climb out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five...

...all heading toward my apartment.

Me to the lead firefighter: I’m so sorry. This isn’t an emergency. I told her it wasn’t an emergency.

Firefighter 1: No worries, ma’am. This door here?

Me: Yes. The owner wasn’t responding for the last three hours. He just showed up about thirty seconds ago.

Firefighter 2: That’s always the way.

Me: You have no idea.

Firefighter Three heads back outside while Firefighter Four walks in carrying a ladder.

Me: My husband is going to laugh at me.

Firefighter 5: Beats crying.

Me: I hope it’s been a slow day for you guys.

Firefighter 6: Unfortunately, yes.

Me: I’m really so sorry. I didn’t know what to do. They’ve got a kid upstairs. I couldn’t let this thing ring all night.

Firefighter 1: No, really. Thank you for not waiting until three in the morning.

Me: That’s the spirit! You guys aren’t volunteer, are you?

Firefighter 2: No, ma’am.

Me: Oh good. I’d have hated for you all to come from every corner of the city, gear up, and get here for...a battery.

Firefighter 1: We’ve had worse calls.

Me: I bet... I still feel absolutely ridiculous. It’s humiliating. What a waste of resources.

Firefighter 2: She called us resources.

Firefighter Three gives him a playful shove. Put that in the report, he says.

They pull the alarm from the ceiling. Watching six of them has me thinking of every lightbulb joke. They begin filing back out of the apartment.

Me: Fellas, I really need your picture. I need evidence. Otherwise no one is ever going to believe this.

Without hesitation they walk back toward the truck, line themselves up, and turn around.

Maybe they’ve done this before.

I was fully prepared to duke it out with the owner.

But the second the brain-splitting beeping stopped, a wave of dopamine washed over me. It’s amazing what silence can do for a person’s disposition.

We ended up chatting.

He’s a hydropower engineer who’s worked all over the country. Over the years he and his wife bought the units in the building one by one until they eventually owned the entire thing. This particular apartment has only been a short-term rental for a few months.

The gravel lot I’ve been parking in? It’s about to become a seven-story hotel. With no parking.

Apparently Knoxville is very committed to pay-by-day lots.

He offered me a free parking space for the rest of my stay.

He seemed like a genuinely nice guy...

...who had hired a genuinely lousy property management company. He assured me he’d be looking into other options.

I unloaded my entire Tennessee tale of woe.

“No way,” he said. “All in thirty-six hours?”

Yes, Mark. Yes. This state is my nemesis.

Although, in fairness, Chicago threw the first punch.

Knoxville just climbed into the ring and finished the job.

I’m fighting the urge to bury my face in a bucket of fried chicken and biscuits.

My college roommate arrives tonight. She’s an effervescent swirl of lighthearted fun.

I’ve begged her to pack extra positivity in her carry-on.

I need some sage. I need some girl time. I need my perennial partner in crime to help appease the gods I’ve obviously pissed off.

“So, you had six fire-fighters here without me? No fair,” she laughed and gave me a hug.

I still like Knoxville though. I think.

Ask me again after I leave.

xo

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