Should smoke detectors have radioactive material in them? The one above my bed does and that makes me a little nervous. I had to rub all three of my eyes to make sure I was reading it correctly.

It was 7:30AM on a Sunday morning and I was standing on my bed, in my underwear, holding my smoke alarm in one hand, wires still attached to the ceiling, and hitting it with the palm of my other hand. Anyone who didn't already think I was a loon needed only to look in my window at that moment.

The power had gone out sometime during the night. I woke up to the sound of my smoke alarm. It wasn't going off, but emitting some awful dying moan. I looked at my watch and gave my own moan. It was far too early for this shit.

I poked my head into the hallway and couldn't hear any sounds coming from the other apartments. I stood up on my bed and unlatched the smoke alarm from the ceiling. A cloud of dust fell onto my sheets with an audible thud. The wires seemed to go directly into the unit. There was no visible plug or battery. I tried the smooth out the ancient parchment that had once been its operating instructions stuck to the back. It was wrinkled and stained now, like a pirate map. In big bold letters it said, "Models that do not contain a battery will not function during a power outage." This unit had no battery but it was still sort of functioning. Well, not so much functioning as giving up the will to live.

That's when I noticed the second paragraph that said, "This unit contains radioactive material. Handle with care." This set off several alarms in my head. It never even crossed my mind that harmless radioactive material may just be part of every smoke detector. I tried to reason that they wouldn’t be stupid enough to equip a home with a glowing isotope strapped to the ceiling. But, for the record, this is an old building; it was built during a time when government trucks rolled down the streets spraying children with DDT.

The radioactive material was Americium. This, in my opinion, is one of the few elements, including Californium and Einsteinium, which must get teased endlessly by all the other elements on the periodic table. It kind of put my mind at ease. It seemed unlikely that I could be harmed by an element that wasn’t even recognized by the French.

Anyway, the power outages continued on and off into the night. As a testament to my lack of emergency preparedness I had only one flashlight and several Yankee Candles from my mother. That meant that if I wanted any kind of illumination I had to endure the smell of apples rolling in on an ocean breeze and falling into a great big sack of potpourri while being beaten by pine branches. After about an hour of this I became light headed and started hallucinating that I was in Candy Land.

Today I skipped breakfast, rode my bike to work, and had a Weight Watchers meal for lunch. Tonight when I looked in the mirror I realized I had dissapeared.

The thought hadn't occurred to me that I had cheated death until I was back in my van driving on the highway.

I had finally gotten the damned thing back from the shop after nearly a full week. I may say nasty things about the van, but if you ever try to separate us we'll both slowly die like little Elliot and E.T. I was in terrible shape by the time the guy at the garage called me and told me that the parts had finally arrived from the magical Land of Narnia and I could now come pick up my newly repaired vehicle. I had been riding my bike to work all week and this exciting news caused my already weary legs to buckle and I fell into a satisfied heap on the floor.

Once I had checked in and paid the bill I was told I could find the van in the back parking lot. I walked around back and gave my van a mean look, like I was a parent who had been called away from work because my child had set fire to his desk and was being held in the principal's office until I came to pick him up. I almost said, "I hope you're happy. Just wait until your mother finds out about this."

But the sad truth was that I couldn't stay mad at my van. I was relieved that I no longer had to ride my bike to work; although I promised myself I would continue doing it because it was, "Good for me." Being able to drive again made me realize how much I had missed it. I proceeded to do the chores I had been putting off (grocery shopping, trip to the Target across town) as well as a thorough test drive over Waltham's bumpiest roads (which is to say I avoided the single road in Waltham that wasn't bumpy). It was like we were old lovers, skipping through a flowery field hand in hand. Somewhere, someone was playing the song, "So Happy Together," (And it couldn't have been me because the radio in the van doesn't work either).

But tonight I made my way up I-95 and 93 like an old lady. I was shaken by the thought of the wheel falling off again while I was on the highway. Last time it was a side road, I was lucky. The odd tapping sound, no doubt related to the wheel falling off, had gone on for weeks. My wheel could have fallen off at any time, like doing 70 on the highway trying to stay ahead of the BMW crawling up my ass.

That's when I knew I had cheated death. The grim reaper sat next to me in the passenger seat tonight. I could feel his icy breath as he leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Next time you won't be so lu- WATCH OUT FOR THAT BUMP!! Ha ha, got ya!"

Shout! Shout! Shout at the Devil! And tell him to sit the hell down because I can't see the god damned movie screen.

So the wheel fell off my van.

I should have expected it. The tapping noise had long since stopped by itself. That meant that whatever was loose had become permanently lodged somewhere or just plain fell off. That should have been the first warning sign.

I can only imagine that the, “Safety Inspection,” administered two weeks ago at a garage that will remain unnamed, was done by someone with as much auto knowledge as me.

Mechanic 1: “Does it have gas?”
Mechanic 2: “Yup.”
Mechanic 1: “Did you check the oil?”
Mechanic 2: “Yup.”
Mechanic 1: “Does it need more?”
Mechanic 2: “Can’t tell.”
Mechanic 1: “Is there a map in the glove compartment?”
Mechanic 2: “Two.”
Mechanic 1: “Alright, it passes road inspection. NEXT!”

When it happened I didn’t even have to get out of the van to know what it was. It wasn’t so much that I knew there was going to be a problem with the tire; it was more because someone, at some point, said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if the tire just fell off.” And because my life is just one big running joke anyway, it was inevitable that this, “Funny,” thing would happen. You could set your watch by the strange shit that happens to me.

Anyway, I was driving around, looking for a Barnes & Noble. Next thing I know the van jerks forward and then comes to a grinding halt. Like I said, I knew what had happened right away. All I could do was turn on my emergency blinkers and get out. Fortunately I was on a side street and not on a main highway.

Of the two or three things that held a wheel to a car, only one was still intact, so the wheel was actually still attached to the car in a dangling-eyeball kind of way. Also brake fluid was leaking out. Well, it could have been brake fluid; for all I know it was marmalade.

After putting up one of those orange triangle things about 100 feet back from the car I ran to a payphone in a nearby mall and called USAA. After navigating the USAA touch tone phone system I was promptly put on hold. I’m sure I was on hold for much less time than I thought, but for the duration I was lightly banging my head against the wall. This no doubt disturbed the shoppers at the mall.

I arranged for the tow and went back outside to tell the rich dumbfucks that orange triangle and emergency blinkers meant go AROUND the car, not stop behind it and honk.

So, the car’s in the shop till at least Monday afternoon. Since I’m probably switching jobs soon I still can’t afford a new car, so I just keep paying to get the van repaired. One of these days the mechanics may just do something right.