LIVING IN CIN
Caper of the Flame
MY ONLY EXPERIENCE WITH A CINCINNATI FIRE ALARM BOX, AND I DIDN’T GET IN TROUBLE. IN CASE OF FIRE, BREAK GLASS. IN CASE OF FIRE, CALL 911. IN CASE OF FIRE SOME DECADES ago, run down the street, open the little box, pull the lever, and wait for a fire engine. That’s what I did, minus the running down the street; the box was right outside my front door. For years, Cincinnati Fire Department Alarm Box No. 4189 had seductively beckoned me from its pole at the curb, calling out to my inner 9-year-old. Open my cute little door and pull my lever, it teased. You can’t wait to hear that big fire engine coming, sang its literal siren song. But no, I had become a responsible adult, a fine citizen, a parent. When the moment arose for me to actually pull the lever, there was a real emergency happening, yet I still felt my inner 9-year-old jumping and yelling, Woo hoo! Finally! Cincinnati’s fire alarm boxes are gone now, replaced by the 911 system. They stood 3 0 C I N C I N N AT I M A G A Z I N E . C O M J U N E 2 0 2 2
silently on duty for more than a century and saved countless lives. Let us honor them, even as we smirk at their crudeness. Like typewriters, slide rules, and eighttrack tapes, fireboxes are near extinction. A few cities still use them as a backup, but not Cincinnati. We fired our fireboxes, almost 2,000 of them, auctioning them off in 1990. Besides being outdated, they had become the source for 95 percent of false alarms, including an embarrassing percentage triggered by people who thought they were mailing a letter. When I activated Box 4189, it was no false alarm. I truly feared a fire at any moment, maybe even an explosion. At the intersection a few feet away were the remains of two cars that had just collided—smoldering, with fluids rapidly spilling out underneath and at least one engine still running. PHOTOGRAPH BY JEREMY KRAMER
PHOTOGRAPH (HOUSE) BY LAWC AIN/ STOCK.ADOBE.COM
BY JAY GILBERT
