So this morning at around 5:30, as I was throwing in an early-morning load of laundry, I thought I smelled gas in our basement near our gas dryer. After quietly freaking out for a moment and alerting my family,
I called Keyspan, our gas company.
Me: "Hi, I think I smell gas in my basement."
Keyspan: "OK, give me your name and address."
Me: "OK. Wait, shouldn’t I leave the house immediately or something?"
Keyspan: "Sir, I need your name and address."
Me: (I give the address)
Keyspan: "Hmmmm … we don’t have that name at that address."
Me: (Growing exasperated) "Well, you send me a bill every month. Listen, can we worry about billing later? Do I need to leave or not?"
Keyspan: "Is the smell of gas strong or very strong?"
Me: "I don’t know! Very strong? Kind of strong? How do you measure that?"
Keyspan: "OK, we’ll send someone over to check it out in the next hour. Let me transfer you over to billing to get your name updated on the account."
Me: "Wait, you still haven’t told me … do I need to leave now or not?"
Keyspan: "I’m sorry, sir, we’re not allowed to counsel you on that. I can’t really say. If you want to leave, you should leave."
Me: (Growing increasingly exasperated, sure that the mere fact of speaking into the phone will create a shock that will spark a conflagration rivaling the great San Francisco fire of 1906) "Wait … you can’t tell me? If anyone should be able to tell me, it should be the gas company, right? So … I should leave because it’s dangerous?"
Keyspan: "I’m sorry, I can’t really say either way. Someone needs to stay to let our technician in, though. I wouldn’t light any matches or cigarettes until then."
So, I decided not to enjoy a Kool Menthol while waiting for the Keyspan guy.
[Come to find out, it wasn't gas, it was a horrid, gas-like smell coming from the burnt-out engine of our relatively new Frigidaire freezer. If anyone wants to come over and enjoy some rapidly-defrosting salisbury steak dinners, let me know.]
