Leftover Ink: Gas Leak Blues

Of course I did anyway, but 30 minutes later and I’m working from home.

The problem is gas—and no, I’m not referring to our sportswriter. One of the joys of working out of the “Old Blue House” is that it’s heated from a furnace tucked away in the basement. When it starts getting cold, we inevitably burn through oil pretty fast and a couple times during the winter, the furnace either needs servicing or it requires the addition of more oil (or whatever sort of fuel keeps the old thing going.)

The upshot is that for the rest of the day, the office smells like a refinery.

I can take the ghosts. I can take the computer cords shooting through the drywall in odd places. I can take whatever seems to be growing out of the window AC unit. But somehow, I can’t take the smell of gas. It’s true—I generally have a pretty strong stomach, but the smell of gas makes me want to wretch.

I believe that it’s the subconscious association to the rising fuel prices.

While the strange smell inevitably sends me packing every time the furnace gets serviced, apparently it was a bit too much for the rest of the office this time, too. Not expecting the gas smell when she opened up the office, our office manager assumed it was a natural gas leak—trust me, if we had natural gas beneath the office, we’d be bottling it and selling it. The newspaper margins aren’t what they used to be.

So, at her request we received a call from the good fellows down the street at Ashburn Fire & Rescue who verified that we were not on fire and that no one was in danger of dying. Despite this, our corporate office heard the phrase “natural gas leak” and ordered us off the premises—I think we were allowed to grab the hard hats we received at the company orientation, but that’s it.

The things we do to keep warm. I’m lobbying for wood stoves or a large central fireplace instead. I’ve been thinking about investing in a wood stove ever since a recent visit down to Harrisonburg. Any James Madison alumni can tell you that one of the core businesses in the ‘Burg is “Acme Video & Woodstove.” I kid you not.

During my old college days, it was the cause of much speculation about how they decided that wood stove sales and VHS tape rentals was a business model that the company should stand behind. Apparently, they did pretty well—at least in the ‘90s. They had a radio jingle that was enough to make most public relations specialists weep in solidarity.

But going back to our smelly office, I arrived after most of the drama had settled. The petrol-smell had mostly died down, but it was still enough to put our ad reps off their game. You try to sell newspaper ads when you smell like a gas station.

It was enough for me too. I informed everyone that I was working from home, and unlike the usual “wink-nudge” work-from-home, I’m usually pretty productive there. There are fewer random phone calls and visitors, and I can write up a news brief with season one of “Supernatural” in the background.

I’m told that the office will be back to normal on Tuesday, and that it certainly won’t smell any worse than usual. I’ll take my victories where I can get them.