The Fire Brigade

Do you ever wish you were in a pornographic movie? Usually, the idea of rampant STDs and general revulsion I have for exceptionally hairy men would have me answering "no." But after the evening I've had, I'm starting to reconsider.
I came home from the gym and began the normal evening routine: opened the newest letter from a credit comapny demanding payment, swooned at the very large number printed on the letter, went into the kitchen to rummage for food, which proved difficult since the credit woes make me feel bad about grocery shopping (but not about beers on Friday and Saturday nights) and decided instead of eating noodles and olive oil I'd instead call the credit card company and ask them to lower my APR so I would have less interest charged to my account as I pawn my dignity and beg my friends to start hating me so I wouldn't have a reason to leave the house anymore.
You may be thinking, "hey, Amy, when does the sexy come in?" Cool your jets. As I am on hold (listening to Bryan Adams) with the fine people at Capital One, our fire alarm starts blaring. Our fire alarm isn't the pleasant First Alert "beepbeepbeep," it's a piercing howl, kind of like Tweety Bird stubbed it's toe after sucking on a helium balloon and screaming into a megaphone. "MEEEEEEEP," it howled. My roommates started searching for the fire alarm that was being so loud as I continued on hold, not really minding the noise since it was making it difficult for me to hear Bryan Adams crooning. I popped out of my room to see if any progress had been made, but Deb and Emily were still running from the front to the back of the apartment trying to figure it out. I closed the door to my room and tried to ignore the "MEEEEEEEP" but it was difficult. The alarm continued as James Taylor told me that I could call out his name and he'd come running (an ironic song choice for a credit card company: I get the impression they're about two late payments from coming to break my elbows). The alarm was still going when someone named Cully actually answered the phone, obviously confused by the noise happening in the background. I heard Deb cry out from the hallway of the building that all the alarms were going off, not just one. It took very little persuading on my part for my friend Cully to lower my APR by a few points, probably because he wanted to escape the piercing din that was coming through the phone. To Cully: thanks. If you'd be a dear and wipe out my balance while you're at it, that would be great.
I got off the phone and decided that my expertise in fire alarms would be useful. I walked to the third floor, and saw Deb teetering on a stepstool trying to press the button that would make the horrible noise stop.
"Do you have a stick or something that I can poke this with? Like a clothes hanger or something?"
"Ooh!" I cried, taking off down the stairs, "I have that rod I got at Ikea."
Deb tried poking the button on the alarm, but the din continued. I felt like a very loud bug was boring into my brain through my ears as Deb got down from the stool and the girls in apartment 3 called the fire department. I tried not to be nosy, but I couldn't help looking around the apartment that was mine, but totally different. The walls were white and the floors were dull and dirty.
"The fire department says this kind of thing happens all the time," said one of the girls from apartment 3, "and they'll be on their way."
In about five minutes, a fire truck rolled up to University Road, all the lights flashing and a throng of firemen stomping up our stairs. "Huh," I said, snapping a picture of the truck with my camera phone, "there are firemen in the building."
Then I had the epiphany that firemen lift heavy things for their jobs. They have muscles. They are concerned with the well-being of others. According to my mother, they make oodles of money and retire early. As the heavy footfalls of the fire brigade walked past my apartment, I checked my ponytail in the mirror and flung open the front door of my apartment, the odor of testosterone and firehouse chili calling me like a siren's song.
Oh. My. God. My friend Heather loves the cop/fireman type of men, and usually I just laugh at her. But damn. Every single guy who walked in the building was hot. Of course, most of them had wedding bands too (although a man named Robinson was hiding his ring finger from my prying eyes) but it was the most testosterone I'd experienced in the apartment at once. It was an orgy of man-hot. I prayed that they were here not just to service the fire alarm.
"Wow, that's really annoying," Robinson said.
"It's been going for about half an hour," I replied, hoping I didn't stink too much of gym and despiration.
"Half an hour?" Robinson repeated incredulously, smiling broadly.
"Yeah, well, it all comes with the territory of living in a crack den."
Robinson laughed, his brown eyes sparkling like the chrome on the truck outside. He thinks I'm funny! I thought.
The girl upstairs we call the Clydesdale stomped in from the basement, fuming about how happy she was to move out in September and the "MEEEEEP" mercifully ended. A new group of firemen, somehow even cuter than the first came in from the second truck that had pulled up.
"Did you come from somewhere else since you're all dressed in the gear?" Deb asked, just as happy to see handsome men standing in the hallway about twenty feet from our beds.
"Nah, we sleep like this," one of the firemen replied.
"No you do not! I've seen Sesame Street, and I know you put that stuff on when a call comes in." Yeah, I referenced Sesame Street, because I've got mad game.
They ALL laughed at my joke, and I thanked them profusely for coming out for something the landlord could have easily fixed himself if he answered his phone.
"The alarms do that all the time," Deb complained, "and our landlord never comes to fix them."
"Next time you really should go outside," Robinson advised. "About six years ago a place in Newton had the fire alarms going off, and nobody took them seriously because they go off all the time, but there was actually a fire and five people died."
The group of men filed out after the alarm gave one last "MEEP" of protest and was then silent. Robinson was the last to leave, saying "it was nice to talk to you." Deb says she saw a wedding band, but I didn't so, Robinson, call me!
Thus begins my career as a pyromaniac. I am going to start setting small fires all over the apartment to bring my truckloads of men back to me. Perhaps I'll also call a plumber and ask him to clean my pipes, order some pizza and hire a pool boy for a wading pool I'll set up in the study.

As I am writing this, the alarms are going off again, at 11:20PM. Maybe my evening will end in hot fireman booty after all.

Update: The evening did not end in fireman booty, but instead with my roommate yelling at my landlord about his skills as an electrician. The firemen came back, slightly less than thrilled to see us again. Robinson was happy because I told him if he came back we'd bake him some cookies. Heh heh heh...