So, what did everybody else do on Saturday? I worked on homework, saw Sin City, and later in the evening Gerry and I watched Rudy with one of his co-workers who may or not be my best friend in the whole world, I don't know. She left around 1:30, and Gerry and I hung around for a minute. He gave me a comic to read, and as I was leaving we both heard a strange buzzing noise. It wasn't in the kitchen, it wasn't the computer; curiouser and curiouser. The noise was louder in the hall and up the stairs, so we went to investigate. The smoke alarm was going off in number 10 upstairs. Being the noble Jedi that I am, I pounded on the door, but received no response. The next logical step (courtesy of Gerry) was to check the doorknob for heat a la the method demonstrated by Dick Van Dyke in the old filmstrip we all had to watch every time the fire marshall came to the school, or the cub scout den visited the fire station. No heat, but no answer at the door either. So, though I am loathe to use the phone except to call Gerry or a relative, I dialed 911 and tried to describe the abstract concept of theoretical fire through a locked door to the bleary-eyed third-shifter at the other end. She said that she would send someone out. I waited at the window for the truck while Gerry bravely brushed his teeth in preparation for dealing with the firemen. Dental hygiene goes a long way with our brave civil servants, after all. I waited outside in case the driver had trouble finding an apartment complex on the third busiest street in north Muncie, and my phone made a noise. It had made a little chime when I dialed 911 the first time, so I looked to see if I had missed a call. There was no evidence of this, so as near as I can tell the fire department pinged my phone to triangulate my location from the tower. In short, very cool. The truck arrived shortly, all lights and sirens like a bat out of hell. I went out to meet the firemen and to explain the situation. Gerry and I tried to reach our landlady and got her voice mail. The firemen climbed up a ladder to the third floor window and determined that the alarm was going off even though there was no smoke. The truck left, and Gerry said that I could post this from his room. He's trying to sleep right now, so if I may I'll speak on his behalf: "Loyal, get the hell out of my apartment. It's two damn thirty." Well said, fool, well said.