I called emergency services when I was staying in Corryton, TN this summer.
It was three in the morning and I woke suddenly with a strong smell filling my nostrils. At first I thought it was interesting, but quickly became worried as the smell intensified. What was it? I lay there on the left side of my Aunt Linda’s king-size bed, which for all impractical purposes was cot-width because I’d chained myself to the length of my computer’s short power cord.
I let my mind drift above her 12 unit, 55-and-older condo community to imagine what lays beyond the acres of cow pasture and wide-spaced farm houses. I was pretty sure there were no chemical plants nearby. But how far away were the people in Bhopal, India when chemicals from a nearby plant escaped in the middle of the night and killed thousands?
The smell seemed to be getting exponentially stronger. I rose, turned on lights and set about sniffing. I sniffed in the living room. I sniffed in the kitchen. I sniffed in the front bedroom and bathroom. I opened the back door, went outside and sniffed around the small back patio and over next to the air conditioner unit. After so much sniffing, the smell had so inundated my olfactory that I could no longer smell anything. I knew the smell was there, but it was as if I’d taken a physical blow to the nose.
Should I call the police, the fire department, wake the neighbors? I was only sure of one thing— I had to get out of there. Maybe it was fertilizer I postulated. But why now? Surely no one was spreading it in the middle of the night.
I dressed and went out to the car my aunt Linda loaned me. I drove up the hill to the corner of the country road above the little valley where the condos sit. At the stop sign I pushed the button to lower the window. Was the smell less here? I couldn’t say. I needed more distance.
At the next corner I paused again. Left or right? To the left, a half mile away, is the hub of Corryton—a library, a post office, a fire station, a tire store and where Aunt Linda and Stewart live. To the right…well I’ve been that way but I couldn’t remember anything but country. Left it was. I drove slowly with my window down. The roads were barren. Night insects sang in my ears. The parking lot of the fire station was brightly lit. I pulled in making a wide arc to park facing the road. There were lights on inside but if anyone was in there they were asleep somewhere in a back room and I wasn’t going to knock on the door. I googled the fire station on my new phone.
Rural/Metro Station 33 was what it was called and it said open 24 hours! Before I pushed the call button I sat there trying to think how I would describe the smell. I knew the person on the other end would ask. Chemical didn’t seem quite right. Aren’t all smells chemical? It’s a poor word for someone who doesn’t like describing, but likes having described.
The smell was still there in my nostrils although I had the suspicion that it might not be in the air surrounding me. I closed my eyes and focused on the sample of droplets that lined my cranium like condensation in a dark cave. Then it hit me—it was like fresh mown grass times one-hundred. The times one-hundred part was important to get across. This wasn’t just passing a newly mown field, it was like having the super saturated smell of one-hundred acres of newly mown hay compressed into a Binaca blast spray container and then having that injected into each nostril.
When the emergency dispatcher answered my call I suddenly became aware that it might sound like I was pulling a prank.
“I know it sounds crazy but that’s the only way I can describe it,” I said after emphasizing the one-hundred times.
“Well, would you like me to send someone out?” the woman asked.
“I hate to wake anyone up about this,” I said.
“We don’t really go on that. I just need to know,” she said.
“Well, I guess so. I’m really concerned that it might be some sort of chemical leak.”
After I ended the call, the phone soon rang again and I had to explain the situation all over. This new dispatcher told me that they were having to send people from Union County because there wasn’t anyone available nearby.
I drove back to the top of the road above the little valley where the condo units sit and parked at the stop sign, facing the road, to catch whoever came before we went down. Fields surrounded me. Porch lights of a farmhouse nearby kept going on and off like there was a short in the wire or perhaps there was an animal activating an automatic sensor. After about 15 minutes, I laid my chair back and closed my eyes. Before drifting off I had the opportunity to reflect on what kind of fool am I?
In about 40 minutes I heard the sounds of a big fire truck accelerating out of the curves up the road. A fireman in a black Suburban preceded the fire engine. We spoke between open windows.
“It’s the third unit down there on the right. I’ll follow y’all down,” I said.
The fire truck following the suburban turned in front of me, engine whirring with all the strain of a machine hauling hundreds of gallons of water, ladders and equipment. I followed and parked behind the fire engine with its rolling red lights and heavy idling engine. I imagined neighbors peaking from behind curtains.
I won’t belabor this story any longer except to say the two men who showed up were very nice. They identified the smell as a skunk that they theorized had sprayed next to the central air unit. How embarrassing! I’ve smelled skunks a thousand times in my life. I can only guess that this one being so close impacted my olfactory in a way that took it out of commission.
R.C., the neighbor across the little condo loop, made me feel better the next day telling me that a skunk a few weeks back smelled just like burning wood. He also said he hadn’t heard the fire engine, nor had the neighbor who shares a common wall. I saw her at Hammer’s Five and Dime in the town of Hall a week later. Her coworker came around the corner to join in listening to the tale of a fool who called the fire department about a skunk. ————————–
Spotty West Goes East 