I work first platoon as a Fire/EMS Dispatcher. First platoon translates into the graveyard shift. Midnight to eight A.M. I, oddly enough, love the hours. But when it's time to go, I'm ready to go.
At the end of my shift, I grabbed my stuff out of my locker and headed for the gated parking lot.
Several police dispatchers stood around one guy's car. They talked, and laughed, and we all shouted good night to each other. As I climbed into my car and backed up, I saw the hood on the one guy's vehicle pop open. I backed in close, rolled my window down. "You guys all set?" I asked.
"You got jumper cables?"
"I don't," I said. It was just after eight. Morning traffic looked congested already. I wanted to head home. Hit the sheets. These were my friends though. "If anyone has some, I'll give you a jump."
The guy who needed the jump found cables in his trunk. I pulled up, grill to grill and released my hood latch.
Before getting out of my car, I heard talking. "What is it, red to positive? Black to positive? I can't remember."
There were five of them. As they hooked cables up to the other car, I assumed one of them set the others straight. My bad. And I know the rule when it comes to assumptions. No need to repeat the breakdown, not for me, anyway.
Really, it didn't matter. Red to positive, black to positive, as long as you are consistent. The colors are just there to ensure that. Consistency.
As soon as the fourth cable clip was hooked up to my battery, and just as I was out of my car and walking around to the front of the cars, smoke billowed from both batteries.
"Shut your car," they told me. "Quick!"
I ran around, climbed in my car and shut the engine. Through the windshield I saw under my hood. The cables were on fire. Flames. Smoke.
They were also on fire, at the opposite end. On the other battery. Two ends of an orange flamed rainbow.
My car was off. I had the keys. That did nothing to stop the fire.
I ran back to the front of the cars. The cables were burning up pretty well. Or good. Whichever.
"We have to get the cables off!"
I'd said it. We all knew it. But no one wanted to touch cables. The combination of fire, and receiving a high-voltage shock ... not very tempting. Not to any of us, at least.
The guy, the one I was helping, used some obscure karate kicks to attempt dislodging the sets of clips.
I pulled out my cell, dialed ... you guessed it ... 9-1-1.
And I became the typical 9-1-1 caller.
"Nine-one-one center," the telecommunicator said.
"Hi. Yeah. This is Phil. I'm right outside, and my car battery is on fire."
I thought I'd covered all the bases. Spoke slow and clear.
"Um. Phil? You are right outside, where?"
The telecommunicator had no idea who PHIL was, or where RIGHT OUTSIDE was.
Of course they didn't.
What did I do? I laughed. I gave the emergency communications department address, said I was in the parking lot -- and added that I worked at 9-1-1.
Just then, the guy kicking jumper cables had freed both cars of the fire hazard. A supervisor burst out of the door from inside the facility toting a fire extinguisher ... and in the near distance (oxymoron or what?) I heard the fast approaching sound of sirens.
Engine 13 pulled into the gated lot. Six, well, with the supervisor, seven of us stood there -- trying to look like, we've got this all under control.
We didn't. Just looked better -- okay, cooler -- if we projected some sort of misguided confidence.
At least, I thought that. And from looking around, so did the others.
Fire-fighters checked the batteries. No harm. No foul.
I started my car -- under their command. Smooth.
The other guy -- never getting the jump he needed --started his car.
I was like, what?
Okay. I didn't say that, but I thought it. What? Don't tell me you just flooded your engine -- that car's fuel injected!
Regardless.
At some point, more floor supervisors from inside had emerged outside.
We'd become quite the spectacle.
Turns out, there was an open invite to come back in and re-watch the excitement captured by the various security cameras ... I passed ... Decided I could go without watching my car almost burst into flames at work.
And the point of this blog? The moral of the story? When you call 9-1-1 try to know where you are. It helps.
(I'm sure there are more points that could be made, more morsels that can be pulled away from the story, but if that's so, I can't think of any).
--Phillip Tomasso
Fire/EMS Dispatcher