Big Mike: Bloomington’s Been A Gas So Far

The furnace went kaput at The Book Case the other day. I work three days a week at the place, peddling Penguin Classics and McSweeney’s volumes. About three weeks ago, I’d noticed the odor of gas in the back room and mentioned it to my co-workers who blithely dismissed my concern. “Ah, it’s nothin’,” said Tanya, the roller derby queen. “Toughen up, will ya?” Rachel, the trained librarian, added, “It always smells like that back there. It’s an old furnace. They all smell like that.” Then she pulled a tome off the shelf and showed me pictures of historic Indiana potbelly stoves.

Meanwhile, I couldn’t get a full night’s sleep for the bone-crushing headaches I started experiencing. I became lethargic and began to feel nauseated much of the time, especially after my shifts at the store. Then one day Tom, the author and songwriter who rents studio space upstairs, came down and complained that he smelled gas and it was making him sick.

“Aha!” I nearly shouted. “I knew it!” I turned to Constance, the owner of the shop, and said, “Just call the gas company. They’ll come out immediately and check it.”

Constance: “Aw, I don’t know. I don’t smell anything.”

Me: “They come out for free.”

Constance: “Oh, okay.”

With that, she picked up the phone and called the gas company. The service guy arrived about an hour later, his electronic sensor blaring an alarm before he even opened the front door. He went down to the furnace room and ran back up, panting. “Everybody out!” he said. “Throw the doors and windows open. Out, out out!”

It turned out the place had a carbon monoxide level ten times higher than that at which a building has to be evacuated. He called the fire department to bring gas ejectors and industrial fans. Within minutes, half the fire trucks and ambulances in Bloomington screamed up in front of the store. They got the building ventilated and the gas guy shut off the line into the place.

I eavesdropped on their conversation after order was restored.

The Gas Guy: “The minute I walked in, my tongue went numb and I started feeling a tingling in my fingertips.”

A Firefighter: “Yeah, when we got downstairs there was a plume of flames about six feet in diameter around the furnace.”

I interrupted. “So you mean we’re pretty much lucky to be alive?”

The ambulance guy nodded and pulled out an incident report. “Do you have any symptoms?” he asked. “Any headaches? Nausea? Lethargy? ‘Cause if you do, we have to bring you to the emergency room.”

I glanced at Constance who had a pleading look on her face, then at Tanya, who narrowed her eyes at me. “Naw,” I lied, “I’m fine.” Constance exhaled and Tanya winked at me in approval.

The whole incident reminds me of the first few days The Loved One and I spent in our new Bloomington home. On the day of our closing, we did our final walk-through on a sunny Thursday. We were seeing the place empty for the first time. Our real estate agent was gabbing on his cell phone (real estate people never seem to be present with you in the moment — they’re always living in some future tense, setting up another appointment, trying to lasso another client.) I opened the garage door and, whoom, it hit me. Gas.

No, not the kind for which I’m justifiably famous. I mean the kind that heats the house.

The home’s furnace is located in the garage and the odor seemed to emanate precisely from the aging heating plant. The Loved One and I both grabbed the real estate man’s left arm and, placing our four feet firmly against his ample tummy for leverage, successfully pried his cell phone away from his ear.

The Loved One: “Tell us if you smell anything odd.”

The Real Estate Man: “Oh hi, I didn’t know anyone was here. My name’s Artie. Would you like to buy a house?”

Me: “Artie, snap out of it. It’s us, Mr. and Mrs. Big. Remember?”

The Real Estate Man: “Oh, right. Sorry. You know how it is in this business.”

Me: “Yeah, yeah. Look, Artie, go out in the garage and tell us if you smell anything.”

The Real Estate Man went out to the garage and started sniffing around like a stray dog outside a Burger King. He burst back in the house huffing angrily. Suddenly, the man who seconds before had to be reminded we were in the room with him now was prepared to go to war for us.

The Real Estate Man: “There’s a gas leak! This is unacceptable! I can’t believe this can be happening! I’m gonna do something about this right now!”

Naturally, he pressed his cell phone to his ear and, upon reaching the real estate person for our sellers, began to holler for justice. After a good couple of minutes of expressing his righteous indignation, The Real Estate Man listened and then said goodbye. He flipped his cell closed and told us we would be able to straighten everything out with the sellers at the closing.

The Loved One, who’s the real hardball negotiator of this partnership, shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe we shouldn’t even go through with it. Why don’t we just have the seller fix the problem first and then we’ll close?”

Good old Artie clutched at his chest with his right hand and extended his left arm like Fred Sanford suffering the terminal Big One. He clearly was imagining his percentage check fluttering away. He quickly regained his composure.

“Now, now,” Artie said, talking fast. “Let’s be calm.  There’s no need to do anything rash. Their agent says everything can be worked out.”

The Loved One, still skeptical, agreed to go through with the closing. Upon our arrival at the real estate office, we informed the sellers — let’s call them Mr. and Mrs. Slip — of the gas odor.

Mr. Slip: “Gas odor? Honey, did you ever smell any gas in the house?”

Mrs. Slip: “Gas? What gas.”

The couple looked as aghast as if I’d suggested we’d found crystal meth-making apparatus in the attic.

Their real estate agent shook her head. “I never smelled any gas when I was in the house. This is the first I hear of it.”

Me: “Wait a minute! I thought Artie just called you about it!”

We both turned to Artie who, of course, held his hand up, signalling us to hold on as he whispered into his cell phone. The Loved One’s brow furrowed. “Well, that’s fine with me. We can do this whole thing another day,” she said to Mr. and Mrs. Slip. “You let us know if and when you want to fix this.” She began gathering her belongings together as if to leave.

I’ve never seen three middle-aged people leap into action so quickly. Mr. and Mrs Slip and their real agent agent nearly pushed The Loved One back into her chair. They hovered around her like ICU nurses. “Can I get you a cup of tea?” the real estate agent asked. Artie even flipped his cell phone closed.

We eventually got the Slips to sign a document that they’d pay for any furnace repairs. Satisfied, The Loved One nodded to me and we proceeded with the closing.

I drove The Loved One back to work and then called the gas company. The service guy arrived an hour later, his electronic sensor blaring an alarm as soon as he walked in the door. He shut the gas line off and informed us we’d have to get our furnace fixed or replaced before it could be turned back on. Bloomington, at the time, was experienced unseasonably cool weather. Temps at night dipped into the lower 40s. It took a good six days for us to get the heating plant back in service. We slept under a lot of blankets (as well as in our socks) in the meantime.

I hardly know where to begin to describe the response Mr. Slip sent us after we’d forwarded him the repair bill. He wrote of the anguished nights he’d spent contemplating fairness and responsibility and the spirit as well as the letter of the law. He said he’d barely gotten a moment’s sleep. I started feeling sorry for him. That is, until his check covering only the original service call fell out of the envelope. After all his mulling and meditation, he’d concluded that he wasn’t on the hook for such luxuries as parts and labor, which amounted to hundreds of dollars more.

The Loved One was cranky about the whole deal for the next couple of months.

How I live and learn. I never knew furnaces could cause so much trouble.