After church on Saturday, Mark and I went to our favorite pizza place. It was a little hard to get to as many streets were blocked off with fire trucks. It was a show of force of emergency responders and when we got out of the car I smelled gas, which seems to be a little too common in Kansas City these days.
We went into the restaurant and ordered our pizza. I was near a t.v. and could hear the report of a gas leak in the very neighborhood we were sitting in. Before long somebody from the gas company came in with a meter to read the gas levels in the kitchen.
This was a little unsettling.
One of the waitresses that works there went to school with Will, and so I stopped her to find out what she knew. The leak was at a nearby apartment complex and they were being extra cautious in light of what recently happened here.
With that, four fireman filed past our table to inspect the kitchen themselves to make sure everything was safe.
The waitress and the patron stopped conversing. A minute later all was well and they walked by us again and out the door.
“Just once,” she said, “I’d like to be carried out of a building by a fireman.”
You and me both, honey.
