"This is where I draw the line."

"I'm here
to kill all the fun."

Trucks and cruisers pull up across the street, sirens blaring. Without another word, we put our conversation on hold. We peer out the window at workers rushing to hydrants; rushing with ladders; rushing with hoses; a mad rush. One of our superintendents pauses for a moment on the sidewalk, then continues her chores.

I felt voyeuristic, creeping into our building's stairwell, using the third-floor window to land a better angle for photographs. Spotting an elderly lady on the fourth floor -- back turned, wearing a floral housecoat, leaning on the window sill -- I feel marginally better about spying on a small emergency. No discernable smoke; no stretchers; no panicked tenants standing at the edge of the driveway, looking up; but still, a lot is happening. Click, click, click.

Half an hour later, the vehicles are still there, though from the partially obstructed living room vantage point it appears that things are being packed up. I don't think anyone watching from a safe distance knew what was going on.

Earlier, the sound of tense young voices, springing out from behind the closed door of the apartment at the end of the hall: I don't care, man! The last thing we need is a bunch of cops coming up here to check things out!

TRACK LISTING: Sahara Hotnights, "Fire Alarm"