The boy who cried Falcon

I can relate to Falcon Heene.

When I was his age my cousin Eileen and I (allegedly) dialed the operator and yelled FIRE! into the phone. It was hilarious. So much so that we decided to repeat the stunt multiple times, but with each call, elevating our urgency.

FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!

My Aunt wondered what we were laughing about and Eileen, even at age 6, was quick to manufacture a cover story. Matt farted.

Awesome. She bought it, and left us alone in the parlor. We giggled and debated on whether we should call the operator again, but just as we were about to make the longest trip on the dial we heard the first wave of sirens.

We looked out the window toward M Street Park and saw a cavalcade of fire trucks racing down the hill. These trucks were in a hurry. You can always tell when they are going to a real call, and when they are going to a routine cat-in-the-tree sort of thing. This was the former because the firemen were hitting the get-the-fuck-out-of-the-way honk often. That's never a good sign.


I shit my pants. Eileen on the other hand was calm as a cucumber.

Look at all the fire trucks! she exclaimed to the entire family who were now all gathered behind us investigating the ruckus outside. Everyone wondered what was happening. Whatever it was—it was serious.

Then the phone rang.

Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnrrrrrrrnnnnnnrrrrrrrnnnnnnggggggggggg

My heart exploded. My balls were in my esophagus and I was on the verge of tears. My uncle was walking toward the ringing phone, but his eyes were still locked on the scene developing outside on the street below.

Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnrrrrrrrnnnnnnrrrrrrrnnnnnnggggggggggg

The operator was calling back. She traced the number. Just like in the movie When a Stranger Calls she knew where it originated from, and the call is coming…from inside the house!

Could they send a 6 year old to jail? They must.

Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnrrrrrrrnnn

Here goes. I'm done. It's over.

Yeah, this is crazy. I know. No, we are all OK. What do you think is happening? I know. I've never seen this many fire trucks in my life. I don't know, but whatever it is—it's serious.

OK, that wasn't it, but sooner or later they would come to get us. We were dead. I was going to jail. It was beginning to get intense. Three floors below, firemen and policemen were frantically racing to each house on the block asking residents if they had an emergency in their home.

Meanwhile, Eileen was talking freely as if she were completely taken aback, like the rest of the neighborhood, by the developing episode.

I wonder if Papa and Nanny are OK?

Nahhhh! She couldn't be THAT cold. My grandparents lived across the street, and it was at that moment I realized I was dealing with a pro. My cousin, just seven months my senior, was like a cocky drug smuggler toying with a customs agent. And I was on the verge of blowing our cover. I bravely retreated to the bathroom and hid in the tub. I began to cry.

The door creaked open and Eileen peaked her head from behind it, and shook her head at the sight of me cowering in the bathtub. She insisted that we had nothing to worry about. They can never trace it to us. We were fine, but I was going to blow it if I keep acting like a sissy.

Then the doorbell rang.

OK this was it. They've found us. I began sobbing.

My uncle skipped down the steps and met a fireman at the front door. He was told that there were several emergency calls, made by kids, to the operator. They couldn't trace the exact location, but they could isolate it to this block.

Discovering there wasn't an emergency at our address, the fireman moved onto the next house. I could hear my uncle walking back up the steps, and he announced to my aunt that it was probably just a bunch of kids making crank calls. And those kids should get their necks wrung. Little assholes.

Kids, what do you want for lunch? Do you want a grilled cheese? Or should we wait and go over to Papa and Nanny's for an early dinner? They are cooking a roast.