What’s That Smell...?

I'm back home Sunday night from a five day vacation visiting the In-Laws in Idaho. Flight was nice and uneventful. Cab ride smelled like wet socks. Apartment smells like gasoline. Kitties need to be fed...

Wait. The apartment smells like gasoline. That's weird. Did I leave a gas can out, or something? No? Why the hell does my apartment smell like gasoline? Maybe one of those propane tanks in the closet downstairs sprung a leak or something. I check those out. Nope. It doesn't smell like propane, stupid...it smells like gasoline. Or exhaust smoke. Uh oh...I hope that's not carbon monoxide. Do I feel light-headed?

I check on all the kitties...they're alive, and pissed off that I'm not feeding them. Later, friends, later.

I guess I'll ask the downstairs neighbors if there was some kind of gas leak while I was away. A gas leak shouldn't smell like gasoline (plus we don't have any gas appliances in our place), but maybe they spilled gas in their house, or something. Or they're planning on torching the place for insurance money. Either way, I should speak with them.

I knock. No reply. I knock again, louder. No reply. Crap. All their lights are off, but I think I can see a flicker from their TV set. I walk around the yard...there's no smell of gasoline or exhaust anywhere. I walk by the garage, and put my ear to the door.

I can hear the sound of a motor running.

Dammit.

Dammit.

That's not a good noise.

As I scramble back upstairs, I create the scenario in my head. Originally there was a couple living below us, but the guy hasn't been around for a couple of months. They probably split up. The woman had been living their alone, but just couldn't take it any more. In despair, she got into her car in the garage, turned on the engine, and was sitting there now.

Meanwhile, I'm upstairs, trying to figure out what to do with the cats. They're still hungry. Doody is laying on his back in the living room. Frenchy is meowing at me from the kitchen. No time. Got to save a life.

I call Erika, who's still at her parents' house in Idaho. "Hi. Sorry, I can't talk right now because I have to call 911 to let them know the girl downstairs is sitting in her car in the garage with the motor running." "The cats are fine." "No, babe, I can't stay on the line...I've got to call 911." "I'm fine. The flight was fine. I've got to go. I'll call you back."

I head back downstairs. I call 911 on my cell phone (the fourth time I've ever called 911... I'm always afraid that they're going to think it's a prank call). "Hello, I just got back from a trip, and my entire house smells like gasoline." "Okay, but I live in a townhome, and I listened through the garage downstairs, and I heard an engine running." "I don't have access to the garage -- it's only being used by the downstairs unit." I give them my name, address, and telephone number. They say that they're sending over police and the fire department. I hang up. Then I scurry back upstairs because the phone is ringing.

It's Erika again. "No, I have all the windows open -- the cats are fine." All three cats are now by the open window, spying (as they always do) on birds. "Yes, I'll get them outside...I'll put them in my car until this gets figured out." "I'll call you back when I have more news."

Downstairs. In desperation, I pound on the door. I hear noises. The door unlatches. Through the door I hear a male voice, "What's up?"

"Um...hey, what's up? Is there...uh...I just got home from vacation..."

"Right on..."

"And...um, my entire apartment smells like gasoline. Is...was there a gas leak or something while I was gone?"

"Oh, it does? Well...I just got a motorcycle, and it's got a leaking fuel gasket."

"It does? Is...is it running or something?"

"No, I don't think so."

"I heard the sound of an engine in the garage."

"Nope, nothing's running. We have a washer and dryer down there."

"Oh." I'm dumbstruck. "Okay, cool...I just thought a car was running, or something."

"Sorry about that...I'll go take care of the smell."

"Oh, no worries. It's cool. Have a good night."

Dammit. There are about to be at least three emergency vehicles pulling into my driveway to investigate a leaky fuel gasket and a washing machine. Dammit. I call 911 back.

"Hi, this is Tyler. Um...I just called a couple of minutes ago about a car running in our garage?" "Yeah, yeah, that's me. Well, it turns out it was just a motorcycle with a leaking fuel...thing...in the tank. There was a fuel leak." I look down the street and see a firetruck navigating around the traffic circle at the end of the block, lights flashing. "So, they were home, and it turns out there's no problem." She tells me that they're going to cancel the call. "Okay, thanks."

The firetruck gets about 20 feet from my driveway, then flips its lights off, and hangs a right past our apartment. I go upstairs. The place still reeks of gasoline. The cats are still planning on assassinating birds (somehow) through the window screen. I feed them, and scoop the box.

As I'm taking the crap out to the garbage can, the guy is there, covering up the bike with trash bags. He points to the leaky valve/o-ring/motorcycle doohicky. He tells me that he has almost completely lost his sense of smell, so he didn't know that it was so bad. I tell him that I actually called the cops, because I thought they were dead. We share a good laugh. I drop the poo in the garbage can and bid him good night.

I call Erika back, and explain everything. She's still sorta' freaked out, as are her parents. I assure her that everything's fine. I'm fine. The cats are fine. We're good. It just stinks in here -- I'm going to air out the apartment. She's glad everything's all right, and reassures me that I did the right thing by calling 911. I'm still pretty embarassed.

After I hang up, I log on to MySpace, and I realize that I really should blog what happened tonight...so...