Oversight

It’s comforting to know that the One-Percenters out there are consistently looking out for the health and welfare of our fair city, especially when it comes to keeping a watchful eye out for fire.

I’ve come to this conclusion based on the observation that the last four times (at least) that the miscreant bicycle gang has been visited by representatives of the Seattle Fire Department, lights flashing and sirens—if not blaring, at least sounding—it’s been because some rich people somewhere have called in the alert.

Whether it’s old money in Queen Anne, slightly newer, but still longstanding bucks in the Denny Blaine neighborhood, mid-century modern cash around Laurelhurst, or more nouveau riches phoning it in from Seattle’s fanciest dining establishment, it’s always the wealthy and entitled who, clutching their pearls, pick up the phone, and ring the tocsin to summon the hook and ladder crew to come out and investigate where the flames are coming from.

In this most recent case, it was a simple box fire that had burned up the box it came in, so I guess that make sense, but at least no one was naked (for very long) in the place where nakedness seems to be the real source of pearl clutching (and phone picking up) of late.

In spite of the alarm, none of it was particularly alarming; the firefighters themselves, were pretty sanguine about the whole thing and yours truly, under the influence of plenty of edible influence found the proceedings entirely delightful, right down to the just-stepped-off-the-pages-of-the-firefighter-calendar fireman who responded first to the call.

Plus, who wasn’t basking in the glow of seeing a fallen comrade restored to vertical, plenty to warm one’s heart even without the extra-judicial flames.

Thanks to the aforementioned influential influences, I kept getting separated from the group on the ride over, but with the beacons alit, I was confident about reuniting; if rich people can confidently tell where we are, so can I.