This story begins with a barbequing vegetarian.
Last night, Natalie prepared a very tasty salad that required grilled chicken, and, for me, grilled tofu. Setting up the mini-bbq that we have is pretty easy now that I've lost my fear of blowing myself up. This little portable grill fits nicely into our storage room and the propane bottles it needs are just larger than a litre.
The grilling was fine and I remembered all my grill skills from when I use to line cook at Frank's Place Italian Family Restaurant. We ate. It was tasty. I have leftovers.
After dinner, I figure it would be a good idea to return the grill to its home now that it's cooled down. So I unscrew the propane tank and put it to the side while I pack up the grill.
What's that sound...? and smell?
I grab the mini-propane tank and bring it close to my face to inspect. In doing so, I ensure a deep breath of brain cell-killing gas that I may regret later. Uh, oh. The propane tank is leaking.
I promptly put my finger in the hole.
In retrospect, I'm not quite sure how I thought that was going to help. I mean, my finger's not going to miraculously stop the leak. It's not going to create enough backward pressure to reverse the natural flow of gas. Less than a minute later, I take my finger from the hole and fill it with the plastic cap that normally goes in that space.
Now, while that also stopped the gas flow, it probably didn't stop the actual problem, which is the unclosed valve that's releasing propane. I put the tank down and back away into the condo.
Part of me thought that maybe it'll be ok. Maybe the cap will hold the propane in. Or, if that doesn't happen, the cap will simply pop off and let out all the propane. Yeah, that won't be to bad... unless the gas collects somewhere and when I open the door in the morning, I ignite a cloud of flamable gas that blows me and the door through the building.
So I call the City.
All I wanted to do was talk to someone regarding hazardous goods disposal. The fire department maybe? Sure, they'll patch me right through to the fire department.
"I'll patch you through to 9-1-1."
"No. Wait. It's not that bad--"
"Calgary Fire Department. What's your emergency?"
"Well, it's not much of an emergency..."
"Uh, huh."
"I've kinda got this small leak in a propane bottle. It's not a big bottle. Maybe just a litre of propane. But I just disconnected it from my barbeque and the propane won't stop coming out."
"Sir, where is the tank now?"
"Um, I left it on my patio. I put a cap on, but I think it might pop off eventually..."
"Don't go anywhere near it and I'll send over someone right away."
"Uh, thanks. I'll meet them outside."
Natalie's playing Settlers on the computer, or reading Fark, or something like that. We suspect that they'll probably just send the Fire Hummer or Fire Jeep. I'm starting to feel a little silly.
Three minutes later, I'm standing in my front lobby horrified to hear the sound of a giant fire truck with sirens blaring and lights rolling as it comes to as stop blocking traffic in front of our building. I wished I'd combed my hair or not decided to wear my Star Wars Storm Trooper shirt.
Three guys in full fire gear jump out of the truck and run (not jog) toward me with extremely serious faces.
"Huh, I'm feeling a little embarrassed now... you see, I wouldn't really call this an emerg--"
"Where's the tank?"
"It's on my patio through the rose bushes..."
I should own up and stop calling it a patio. It's more like an escape hatch to which we have exclusive use. It collects dirt and drug detritus and is where I grill something every three months. I bet the firemen were judging me. I'm glad I didn't tell them I'd been grilling tofu.
They reach over the railing and grab the one litre tank of propane, pull off the cap and take a wiff. Yup, it's propane. They move to put it in their bomb bag or whatever it is they have with them when one guy pipes up:
"Hey, do either of you have a small knife or screw driver?"
As the other two reach for their pockets, I take a step back. If anything's going to spark this cloud of propane in the next minute, I want to get away with only minor burns and a story about how I was thrown through the air by a home made grenade.
The fireman holding the canister takes the knife from his partner and jams it into the main hole, wriggling the knife around. When he's done, the leak has stopped and he's putting the tank back on my patio, wrongly assuming I'll be grilling anytime soon.
I get a minor lecture about how I can close the valve of the tank with a little force next time, 'cause "sometimes they stick." They assure me that it was worth an emergency call rather than letting all the propane leak. I feel moderately better, although a condescending pat on the head would've made me feel just as good.
As they putter off on their monster of a fire truck (I swear, that was larger than normal fire trucks), I turn around to face a fellow owner with a panicked look on her face.
"Is everything ok?" she asks.
"Yeah, everything's cool. I didn't blow up the building."
Not yet.
