What Smoke?
Great moments in building history: The day really can't get much worse
As we left the shop one morning, Mark (my supervisor) said, “Feel like cutting some concrete?” This was like asking if I felt like having a cavity drilled. The obvious answer is “no,” but I’m the sole laborer on the remodeling side of a home-building firm. I could put some things off, but eventually, they ended up back in my lap.
We were doing an extensive remodel on a large home outside Lexington, Kentucky. Among the improvements: a monitored alarm system, a squash court and a locker room/bathroom next to the court in the basement. Everything had been completed except the bathroom, and that’s what I was to be working on that day. The plumbers were coming in the afternoon to begin laying lines in the floor, so I had to cut concrete.
Cutting old concrete is hard enough when it’s out in the open, but when it’s in the dark corner of an almost windowless basement, it can be downright evil. Having done more of this kind of thing than I cared to admit, I had a system worked out: I stuffed towels under the doors leading upstairs, I shut off the furnace, and I clothed myself from head to toe. Goggles, a dust mask, heavy gloves and carrier-deck quality earmuffs rounded out my attire. Hoping to keep the air as clear as possible, I set up a fan to blow out the nearest window. The fan was a good theory, but in reality, it didn’t seem to work well. After two minutes of cutting, the basement was so dust-choked that the only thing I could see was the red-hot edge of my diamond blade.
Even with the ear protectors, the noise was deafening, but I was making good headway—the floor wasn’t as thick as I’d anticipated, so I kept at it. I had been sawing for about 30 minutes when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dim flashlight beam stabbing at the dust and felt a gloved hand grab my shoulder. Assuming it was the boss checking on my progress, I turned off the saw and turned around, but instead of Mark, I found myself face to face with a firefighter. He seemed to be yelling at me though I couldn’t hear a word because of the earmuffs. I lifted them off one ear and was greeted with a piercing whine and the angry question, “Don’t you see the smoke?” Through my caked mask, I croaked, “What smoke?” A look of revelation came over his oxygen-mask-covered face. “This is dust,” he spat as he pulled me toward the stairs.
Outside, I learned that enough of the dust had worked its way upstairs to set off the smoke alarms, which in turn triggered the arrival of two firetrucks, the occupants of which were now circling the house in search of the blaze. Apparently, the alarms had been blaring for 20 minutes, but I hadn’t heard them because of the saw and the earmuffs. Things were soon cleared up with my visitors, who pointed out that my fan setup was indeed doing something because if you backed up a few hundred yards, it looked like white “smoke” was billowing from behind the house.
The dust eventually dissipated enough for the alarms to shut off, and as the firetrucks drove away, I rang up the monitoring company. I needed them to disable the system long enough for me to finish my work. The problem was that they couldn’t do this unless I gave them the password. Not knowing the word, I called Mark. He also didn’t know, and the homeowner was out of town for the week. Mark ended up calling the electrician who installed the alarm to learn how to disconnect it and soon arrived at the house.
The instructions were simple: Disconnect three wires, being careful that they didn’t touch each other. The first two came loose without incident, but the third was under some tension, and when Mark turned its attachment screw, it sprang up and brushed the detached ones. A red light in the panel box lit up briefly, then went out. With the system disabled, Mark left, and I redonned the raiment of a concrete cutter. I completed my work within ten minutes, and after a quick dust-off, I got in my truck and headed for the nearest general store. I was no more than a half-mile up the road when a police cruiser with lights and sirens on roared past me. After realizing that I don’t get paid nearly enough, I turned around and caught up with the officer. He was concerned that the home whose alarm he was responding to was not only being burgled but also was on fire, judging from the “smoke” that was billowing from behind it. I was barely able to stop him from resummoning the firefighters.
The rest of the day went quickly. I broke out the concrete before the plumbers arrived, and I did it without prompting the arrival of any more emergency personnel. That evening, I contemplated making an appointment with my dentist. I had a difficult time believing that a day with him could be any worse.
—Todd Crist, Boulder, Colorado
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