The Birth of an Urban Legend

 The Birth of an Urban Legend
By Arlene Levin 
 (c)2024

     I heard the knocking.  Through the front door window I could see a man standing, wondering, waiting.  Slowly I walked down the hall past the bedroom, clothes still scattered, the bed unmade, I closed the door.  I passed the entrance to the front room, the fireplace held the remnants of yesterday's fire and the sweet smell still hung in the air.

     I reached the front door and there he stood, a man maybe 50, graying hair with a bit of paunch .  As I opened the door I saw his metal tool box sat at his feet.  “He’s here at my front door, I guess there is nothing more I can do now” I thought.  Michael had classes so I have to handle this alone. I opened the door and the visitor cautiously stepped in and stood in the doorway.

     How did it come to this on a sunny December afternoon, just a few days after Christmas.  We stood there for a moment looking at each other.  Then he said clearly, “ I’m from the gas company”. He was holding what looked like an order book, an ID card hung around his neck.  “I received a report saying the pilot light on your gas stove is out and needs to be re-lit.  Is that right?”  In a quiet voice I said, “Yes, I think that is the case, thank you for coming.”  I nodded not wanting to give him any more information.

“Please show me your stove” he said in a very matter of fact tone.

     We walked down the hall to the kitchen.  I thought, “I’m so glad I closed the bedroom door.  I wouldn’t want him to get the impression I am messy too.”  Through to our small kitchen, I walked slowly still trying to consider how I’d answer his question, “How did the pilot light go out?”

     The night before we’d gone to a wonderful party.  Everyone had holiday fever.  We drank, we smoked, we laughed so hard my ribs hurt.  Later Michael and I stumbled into a taxi and got home well into the night.

     It was cold. We carefully walked up the icy wooden stairs to our first floor apartment in our 1940s fourplex.  Really tired and anxious to get to bed I was relieved when the door opened and I felt a rush of warm air and heard a familiar sounds.  I always left the radio on for the cats.

     I walked past the front room and down the hall and into our large “everything room”.  Always ready for dining, television, music, studying and dancing, it was the heart of our home.  Suddenly I stopped.  Caitlyn, our beautiful black cat was playing with something on the floor.  It was alive and she was pushing it around.  At one point she tossed it up in the air.  “Oh my God...I know what that is”, I thought.  I looked over to the glass terrarium that was the home of my classroom pet.  For safe keeping  I’d brought it home for the holidays.  Caitlyn had somehow moved the heavy telephone books that held the screen down.  The screen was move  just enough so I guess Caitlyn was able to reach in and pluck the poor helpless gerbil out of its safety.

I screamed, "OH NO".  Michael came running and the cat disappeared.  "What's going on?" he shouted.  I pointed.  The gerbil was still breathing but not moving much.  Michael and I stood helpless watching the poor thing suffer.

 

In our inebriated state the horror was overwhelming. 
What are we going to do?
I said, “What can we do?”
For some inexplicable reason we felt we had to do something.
The idea of just letting the poor thing die was never considered.

     I’ve never killed anything bigger than a fly.   To put the poor thing out of her misery I remembered some say “crush the skull”  or “drown it”.  Michael and I discussed it.  “Well no, I couldn’t do that either” he said in almost a whisper.  "So what are we going to do?  We have to do something” I said exasperated.

     Recalling old movies and even the death of Sylvia Plath, even now as I write this some 50 years later, I still can't believe our solution.

  With little discussion we knew what had to be done.  I found little box and punched holes in it so the gas could enter freely.  I gently picked up the little gerbil, put her in the box and placed  it on the centre shelf in the oven. With great effort Michael found the pilot light and blew it out. Just as we’d seen in old movies we turned the gas up to high and opened the kitchen window.

     We stood there for a few moments.  “Strange” I said.  “Do you smell gas?”  “No!”  We thought nothing of this particular fact thinking it was because the window was open.  This being my first murder by gas I let the moment pass.

     For about 20 minutes we sat in the other room and nary a word was spoken.  We sat as mourners waiting for the end.  “OK” I said. “I’m going in to see what’s happening.”  I walked back into the kitchen, still no smell of gas.  I opened the oven and picked up the gerbil coffin.  I looked inside and the sweet little thing was dead...finally! 

     As I thought about how this all happened, the gas man was still standing in front of me.  He began, “To avoid accidents there is a fail safe on all gas appliances like your stove.  When the pilot goes out, the gas is cut off.”  

     I thought, “In that case the gerbil probably died of her injuries...but at least we didn’t have to watch it!”  He went on to say, “You can’t re light it yourself, you need me, an professional from the gas company to re light the pilot..” and then he said, “I checked your system and can’t find anything wrong which is a good thing.

Then he asked again, “So tell me, how did the pilot go out?”

     The gas man was standing patiently waiting for my answer.  Trying to avoid the moment I began, “Can I get you anything?  Water? Juice?” I said.  “Would you like to sit down for a moment?”

     He did sit down and his demeanor changed from questioning to amusement as I began my story.  When I finished he said with a big smile,  “Do you mean to tell me...Now let me get this straight...So you put the box with the gerbil into the oven thinking you had turned on the gas?”   Then with a laugh he said, “The boys at the shop are going to love this one.”