Sunday, May 02, 2010


Had I left the house at 7 a.m. for the storage unit, like I'd planned, the day would have been so much easier.

But I can't remember the last time self-discipline was my friend, so instead of being in my car driving through the Holland Tunnel at 7, I was tossing and turning after awaking from a zombie-threat dream. My friends and I were having a party—imagine that—amidst a zombie invasion. Having to occasionally shoot a pal who had gotten bitten was just part of the evening.

I finally got out out of the house and cruised over to the tunnel approach line at 11:30. This normally isn't a big deal on a Sunday, but weather was unseasonably hot, traffic was already congested, and I poked in Henry the Ford Taurus's nose right behind a Mazda.

Windows were down and the Mazda blared "Jungle Boogie" all the way through the tunnel. I flashed back for a second to driving a blue Volvo into the tunnel in 1988, my guy friends jumping up and down to "Mary Mary" by Run-DMC. Or maybe I imagined that.

Traffic was slow enough that I had time to contemplate the tiles along the sides. White, American cheese orange, and grime. When was the last time they were cleaned? 1990?

The Manhattan side of the tunnel was even worse. I inched forward, wishing I'd taken then Brooklyn approach to South Street instead of heading around Battery Park.

Drive... brake... wait. Drive... brake... nervously check all gauges for signs of crankiness... wait.

Finally I was at the storage place, just above South Street Seaport.

In the course of trying to drag the old server out of the storage unit (which was my mission), I managed to drop about 200 comic books on the floor. I dismantled and rebuilt Kraiger's tower of boxes so that it wouldn't fall on his head next time he came downtown. I threw the server into the back of the car (it's going to find a good home somewhere--haven't worked out where yet but surely someone needs it more than the storage unit does) and headed back around the tip of Manhattan to J.C.

I got through the tunnel back to the Jersey side in a minutes, and headed to my garage.

Beep. Beep.


The sound of a battery running out in a smoke detector filled my garage.

Where is that?

I scanned the ceiling until I found something that looked like a smoke detector. I managed to rip it off the wall, and that's when I discovered that is was hard-wired in.

Not anymore.

Beep. Beep.

Next, I tore open the garage door opener. Nothing that looked like it took batteries. I unlatched the opener so that it didn't work and studied closer.

Nope. No battery there.

Beep. Beep.

Ugh, I'm an idiot. I know what that is.

I could see two smoke detectors in a box of tools that I'd left in the garage last time I moved. I tore them both open. The first was a dud — empty battery compartment. But the second had a battery in it. I ripped it out and tossed it into the box. I turned the garage door opener back on and...



I left it unhooked and manually shut and locked the door. Screw it. The busted door would still be there next time I got to the garage, along with the wires sticking out of the ceiling.

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