Great Potential Balls of Fire…
Summer is the peak of activity for firefighters, the 4th of July being no exception, and I thought I’d do my part to keep the local fire brigade prepared and on their toes.
I made my first-ever 311 call.
We rented three movies from Blockbuster last night. Right after Snow Dogs and just before Monster’s Ball, my wife put our son Sterling to sleep. The evening was perfect outside, not too hot and not too cold, a slight breeze played through the backyard. It was dusk (just after twilight) and I spent a few minutes outside on the lawn, breathing in the night air.
I noticed a buzzing coming from the general area of the back door near my oft-used barbecue and stooped to check it out. The grill was fine, but I soon discovered that the plastic wrapper on a spare propane tank next to the second barbecue was vibrating. The noise changed as I fiddled with the wrapping, leading me to the conclusion that I had found the source of the problem. I carefully ripped off the plastic and realized with alarm and dismay that the tank was heavily corroded with rust with a pinprick hole in the side.
I’ve always been deathly afraid of large volumes of gas compressed into a tiny cylinder, so I gingerly moved the tank away from the house and set it down near the back gate. I repeatedly picture a redneck named Billy Bob in Tennessee (or Kentucky if you happened to live in or were born in Tennessee) who’s had too much to drink during his lunch break, who’s just broken up with his girlfriend, and is welding my propane tank together while listening to Willy Nelson crooning a sad tale about a dying dog. Not a lot of confidence I have [spoken with voice of Yoda]. Every time I get them filled and put them in my car to take home, I mentally picture the seams busting, metal shards explosively ripping through me and my car. Not at all pleasant. So you think I’m going to take a full leaky tank back to Home Depot? I don’t think so!!
Less than five minutes after my 311 call, a fire-engine red (what else?!) fire truck pulled up, lights flashing, but thankfully without sirens. Within a minute or two they had found the leak for themselves — despite my having shown them the exact same spot when they first showed up. A few tools and 45 minutes later, the tank was empty, the gas dissipated into the surrounding neighborhood.
They informed me that Blue Rhino, the propane tank exchange service, does not inspect or service the propane tanks it receives. It’s all about making money. According to the firemen, this particular Blue Rhino tank that I had received in exchange had been painted over several times, was over twelve years old, and was not legal to refill since it didn’t have a valve with an OPD (overflow prevention device). I know I’ll never give them or any other exchange service any further business.
I’m six foot two and over 220 pounds, and when the lead fireman shook my hand goodbye, I thought he was going to crush it. Big guy. Deep booming voice. Likes to barbecue with his own built-in backyard rig, almost as big as mine. Sounds about right. Fire has a love-hate relationship with these folks.
Heroes, all.
