Bodhisattva

I'm learning about the stages of grief as it pertains to smoke detection. I wrote a smoke detector post once before, the highlight of which (if you missed it) was me naked on a chair at 4 AM, groping at the ceiling, "my balls hanging down like a church bell." There will be no scrotal imagery in this one but the pain is just as real.

It started last night. That malevolent, taunting chirp. I'm supposedly here to help you and keep you safe, but my real purpose is to remind you that you are at my gadget mercy and will dance to my hateful tune! I rummage through a bedroom drawer and somehow stumble upon two 9 volt batteries. Who says I'm not prepared for disaster? I even have a step ladder. I am the little handyman engine that could, and up the ladder I go, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can." But when I slide that little plastic cover to reveal the gizmo's beating heart, it is not a fallen 9 volt I see, but two fading double AAs. It's the old switcheroo! I have been battery duped. But old Swerdy is wearing his overalls-- I have a box of double AAs as well, and back upstairs to fetch them. 

After the appropriate amount of struggle and heartache I manage to get the batteries in, in what seems like the right direction. I stare at the detector like a child staring at an alcoholic parent, waiting for them to unleash yet another rant of drunken cruelty, but the detector remains silent, somehow satisfied with my offering. I feel a mixture of relief, satisfaction and surprise. It's home ownership 101 and I just got an A.

I sleep like a king, wake up, take my morning walk, do my morning stretch and make my morning coffee. But as my French Press marinates, I hear it again-- That sneering double squawk. "Fuck you!" It says, "not that easy."  I try to stay calm, maybe it's just a momentary glitch (that's the denial stage). But there it is again, and again, and again. I can't have this! It's Monday morning, I need to get my writing week off to a good start. The temptation to procrastinate with personal emails or answering Substack comments is strong enough without maintenance issues to deal with. And not only that, I handled this shit last night. A loss like this is bad enough, but a loss after you've already marked it down as a win is even worse.

I go upstairs and shut my office door, thinking I can manage it, but it's the sonic equivalent to water torture. The chirp hurts my heart and slumps my shoulders, reminding me of how tiny and ineffectual I am. Okay, breathe my boy, breathe. Clearly, those batteries you used were old. Just go to the 7-11 on the corner and get some new ones. Actually, I'll go to Smart & Final and get batteries and a few things I need for the house; turn a negative into a positive, behave as if I'm the kind of person who takes appliance setbacks in stride and not the right brain dominant hysteric I really am.

I go to Smart & Final, procure my needed supplies, and even return my cart neatly to the "cart return" area. It's just life, no need to fall to pieces.

I get home, put in the new batteries and of course it doesn't work. The batteries I used last night were out of a box, why would they be dead?  But that doesn't occur to me 'til this moment. Now, the grief starts to come. A feeling of being completely overmatched by life and taunted to boot.  There is nothing to do but get the wire cutters and hurt this thing like it has hurt me (anger stage). I will shut its fucking mouth once and for all, and if the downstairs catches on fire, I'll just jump out the window into my new pool!

Hold on, don’t get crazy. What would Buddhist nun, Pema Chodron do? I believe her book "When Things Fall Apart" has a whole chapter on smoke detectors. Pema always says, stay, stay, stay. Stay with the feeling. The action you take to soothe it always ends up being worse than whatever hurts in the first place. You should not rip it out of the wall, destroy the plaster and fuck up your beautiful old home, just for the visceral thrill of rage expressed (the hot red, twisted sex charge of physical destruction!). Chant the many names of Buddha and be with what is.

I wrap the dangling detector in a blue and white checked dish towel, and go upstairs to my office. I have gotten through anger and denial and am now in the bargaining stage. Or maybe it's the delusion stage because I tell myself I can handle it, and not only that, I will use this rude, every thirty second intrusion as a sort of metronome and rhythmic guide. My work won't be diminished, it will be enhanced.

Not a chance. It's less like a metronome and more like someone whispering "asshole" in your ear every thirty seconds. I go online and check causes for a malfunctioning detector that aren’t the batteries. “If your detector is ten years old or older, it can just die. You should check the date on the back.” I do. March 2014. I skip the depression stage, go right to acceptance and text Vance, my loquacious, but competent handyman. He’ll come, but he’s moved to the valley, and needs to be paid for his travel time. It’s a five-minute job, but it’ll be $150, plus the new detector. “Yes,” I say. “That’s fine. In fact, it says in the Writer’s Guild handbook that all writers must overpay for simple maintenance services they should be able to perform themselves. Come on.”

Vance will be here in a couple hours, AND I wrote this little ditty with that damn smoke detector screeching in my ear. Maybe I’m on my way to Bodhisattvahood after all.