Lift Glass and Pull Lever

Lift Glass and Pull Lever

If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget the indelible memory of those simple instructions, first read in my youth. I don’t exactly remember my age at the time but, because I was old enough to read, I’d say about eight or nine.

Back in the day, being without a driver’s license didn’t keep my mother from getting around town. On a particular Saturday, the day I learned a little more about the workings of the grownup world, my mother rounded up her small tribe of three kids for a bus-ride into the city and a day of shopping. The plan had been to take the bus into town, spend the day shopping and then, later in the afternoon, catch a bus that could drop us off at my dad’s shop. Then we’d simply ride home with him in the car.

I don’t remember much of that day before the event occurred. I’m sure my behavior earlier in the day had been saintly, knowing how my two younger siblings looked to me as an example of pristine behavior. It was when we were waiting for the afternoon bus that I found myself like many kids with nothing to do and too much time on their hands: bored.

People—some shoppers and others workers—waiting for buses, in order to leave the city, crowded the corner where we stood. As we waited with them, I became aware of a red metal box with a glass cover situated on a pole next to me. Having nothing better to do, and with the curiosity of a youngster attempting to expand his horizons, I moved in for a closer look. Printed across the top of the box were the words, Lift Glass and Pull Lever. As one never to be put off by a challenge, I did just that. When I pulled the lever the box began buzzing. Confused, I examined the box for further instructions. Just below the glass cover, printed in bold letters, were the words, In Case of Fire.

As my chest constricted, forcing the air from my lungs, I couldn’t think of anything better to do, so I started bouncing up and down where I stood. A million thoughts went through my head all at once, and every one of those thoughts ended with me being killed by my dad. And where were we headed? To see my dad, that’s where.

I don’t know if I came to my senses and ran to my mother or she noticed me going into cardiac arrest, but somehow she had figured out what I’d done. As the sirens of the approaching fire trucks grew louder, my mother directed me, along with my brother and my sister, into the alcove of a furniture store and pretended we were window shopping. All I could manage as I stood staring at furniture through a thick plate-glass window and seeing none of it was a sense of impending doom . . . my dad was going to kill me.

Several fire trucks had rolled into the intersection nearest the buzzing fire alarm and a squad of firefighters, dressed in fire fighting gear, had exited the trucks and begun searching for a fire. After an exhaustive but futile search for the blaze, the Chief made his way to the center of the intersection and announced, false alarm, folks.

A short while later our bus pulled up providing us a means of escape. All I can remember of that ride was the anxiety associated with having to face my dad and give an accounting of what I’d done. When we arrived at our stop, I didn’t want to get off the bus, but what choice did I have? It had been a good life and, at eight or nine, I felt as though the end of mine was just across the street in my dad’s shop.

As soon as I walked into the shop, I immediately knew fate was laughing in my young face. Across the room and pinned to the wall, a poster declaring National Fire Prevention Week urged responsible citizens to observe fire safety. If the people in my dad’s shop thought enough of fire safety to hang posters, none of them would be too forgiving of a little miscreant setting off fire alarms. This was it, the final nail in my youth-sized coffin.

As it turned out, when my mother told my dad what I’d done, he laughed. He didn’t get angry at all. However, he did put a fear in me that lasted for months after that day. He told me that I’d better hope those fire trucks didn’t run over anyone as a result of me pulling that fire alarm. It seemed, according to my dad, if anyone had been hit by a fire truck on the way to my false alarm, the police would go to the fire alarm box, retrieve my young fingerprints, and then come to the house and get me.

I guess the one good thing that came from the whole ordeal: I learned to pray.

Advertisement