Irony is a bastard, part II

Where last we left our hero, he had just arrived home after a long day at work to find that something in him home was amiss. And now, the conclusion of "Irony is a bastard."

Even with the jolt of adrenaline that comes out of surprise or fear, my mind was still slow to process information and now I'm turning on all the lights and sniffing the air to determine where the burning oder is coming from. My immediate thought was that it had something to do with the dishwasher's wiring, which was the most recent addition to the kitchen. The kitchen was hazy, and now I was starting to feel a bit dizzy. On my approach to the dishwasher, something else catches my eye. There's a small indicator light on the range glowing orange. At first, in my tired state, I ignore it and continue on to the dishwasher, but then I realize what the orange glow actually indicates: one of the surface cooking elements is on. Indeed, I can feel warmth coming from the direction of the range and now focus my attention on turning off the inappropriately turned on burner.

I'm standing in front of the range, looking at it, trying to make sense of what I see in front of me, and the facts I know to be true. Only 3 of the 4 burners work. Actually, let me clarify. I only use 3 of the 4 burners because one of the knobs is missing so I just ignore that burner entirely, so all of my recent experience with the stove top revolves around the left rear and two front burners. And that's why I'm confused. All of their knobs are off. But clearly one of them is on; I can feel the heat radiating as if I'm standing near a campfire. I hold my hands about a foot above each of the 3 burners yet none of them feel like they're giving off heat. Now, chances are that if I had not been so tired, the empty pan on the "dead-to-me" burner that is visibly smoking would have immediately jumped out at me as the source of the problem, so I'm a little embarrassed to admit that it took a minute or so for me to arrive at the conclusion. Without a control knob, that burner shouldn't have been on at all. I can't remember the last time I even used that burner. Actually, the last time that burner was used was when Carlos left a kettle on the still-on burner and it cooked dry and got so hot that some of the enamel from the pot fused to the coil element. Just another incident to add to my collection of "roommates burning down the house" fears. And even now, with no one living in the house except me, I know have to worry about strangers burning down my house. After removing the smoldering pan from the stove — burning my hand on the scorching "stays-cool" handle in the process — and turning off the offending burner, I open all the windows to let out the reportedly toxic fumes that had been building up for hours, and then head up stairs to lie down for a while in hopes that the room will stop spinning.

Lying there, I can't help but think about the several occasions that T-Snake set off the smoke alarms late at night after getting high and deciding that pan searing a steak was the only thing that would remedy the ensuing munchies. My solution? Ban him from cooking steak ever again. His solution? Take the batteries out of the smoke alarms so the next time he attempted to cook while high in the middle of the night wouldn't wake me up. Of course, he never remembered to replace the batteries which would explain why the smoke alarms were ringing when I got home. Staring up at the ceiling, I close my eyes, slowly letting the anxiety of what just happened mix with the still fresh memories and fears of my ex-roommates near-fires. Like a flood, the anxieties take over and I just loose it. I'm paralyzed with the fear of what almost happened and, at the same time, I'm sobbing uncontrollably. Only later would I see the sick irony of what happened.

After I'm finally able to regain my composure, I head back downstairs to revisit the scene. The surface of the pan has noticeably changed color, taking on a yellowish tinge compared to its identical sibling. How could this have happened? When I'm finally able to crawl into bed for sleep, I feel the anxiety start to return, my muscles tensing up and unconsciousness only comes in short intervals until my alarm goes off.

I have to find out what happened so I contact my realtor. He assures me that he's not sure but will get to the bottom of it. I tell him that considering the circumstances, I'm not paying for the inspection. He doesn't necessarily agree with that decision, but he doesn't disagree with it either. Whatever. He gets back to me to report that they turned on the stove as part of their inspection. I find that odd because I had told my realtor that the stove was not going to be included in the sale of the house and didn't understand why it would have been inspected. "Oh, that's right," my realtor says. Not exactly an answer to bolster my confidence. Then I ask the $64k question: did you chaperone the inspectors, or did they alone access my house? There's a pause and then an answer I was both expecting and not. My realtor did chaperone the inspectors, and also went through the house turning off lights and appliances as they finished each room, and went through the house one final time before leaving to make sure that everything was off that should be off. I'm stunned. I'm crushed. I'm furious. I tell him that I'm going to need some time to decide how to proceed. Minutes later I contact his manager and ask to fire (no pun intended) the realtor and cancel my contract with them.

So where does this leave the home sale now? Well, my house is not on the market and I'm not sure when it will be. But when I'm finally ready to list it, I can promise you it won't be with that company. Maybe I'll do a "for sale by owner" … because if you can't trust yourself not to nearly burn down your house, who can you trust?