Baptism by Fire at ESP

Baptism by Fire at ESP, by Kristen A. Johnson

To say that working at Electronic Surveillance Programs was a privilege may be a bit of a stretch, but working with one’s siblings certainly was – at the most, it made the day pass quickly with jokes and banter…and at the least, it was always interesting. I think all of us got the special opportunity to work at ESP, and several other family friends were swiftly inducted into the Alley family “inner circle” (think Robert DeNiro from “Meet the Parents”). I can distinctly remember several fist fights, curse words, tears, and yelling – and unfortunately, I don’t think any of it could be blamed on the fact that we worked with misdemeanants and felons. It was truly amazing that any of us survived.

Even more amazing was the fact that Dad didn’t kill us. Or that I didn’t.

It was a very rainy day when I pulled into the dark, dripping parking garage (which also happened to be the lovely setting of seeing my very first drunk urinating on Dad’s champagne-colored Acura). I tromped through the potholed and puddled garage, my gray Adidas’ soaked before even reaching the door of the building. I had blasted the heater during the 20-minute drive from Bountiful High to Salt Lake, trying to dry my icy feet, but my work was quickly undone. Apparently, upkeep of the garage asphalt was not high on the priority list of the building management.

After saying my hellos to those in the front office, I settled into my dreary work in the “back room” of the offices of ESP. Not only did my work require little more than the skills of a monkey, but I am now aware that the work I did was most likely completely unnecessary. I organized, re-organized, re-labeled, and re-filed the sad histories of the men and women who had drifted through ESP (once ESS) for DUIs, possession of illegal substances, and a myriad of other petty (and not so petty) crimes. It was also here that I saw my first full-body (or at least, full-back) tattoo (a beautiful reproduction of the Salt Lake Temple), was propositioned by a doctor to move to Oregon and grow marijuana, drove the misguided man who had taken his son to the mountains and starved him on watermelon and lettuce, and met – in the flesh, from Biblical fame – Potiphar’s daughter.

But on this day, I was actually glad for the windowless comfort of the back room. Because that meant I also had total monopoly of the microwave, and for a genius like me, a microwave and a little creativity was all I needed.

I had already stripped off my soaking socks and was happily watching them rotate through the microwave window when Dad interrupted my self-congratulatory glee. He was leaving to pick up some food for the office, and had come back to see whether I might like something. He threw a puzzled glance at the microwave, wondering whether I had already helped myself to a frozen burrito or a snack from the “on-your-honor” box out front (side note: I think I still owe a couple bucks to that cardboard box, or at least to petty cash).

“I’m microwaving my socks, Dad,” I explained. “Your daughter is a genius, huh.”

I think he mumbled something like, “Yes, very smart” and left with a concerned look on his face.

I shrugged and popped open the door. My socks were in much better shape and almost toasty, but that 30 seconds on high hadn’t quite cut it. And this definitely wouldn’t do – the toes of the socks were still icy cold.

I put them in for another 20 seconds or so (since I’d had no previous experience with the exact science of warming socks, I figured I could keep an eye on them through the window, like popcorn). But not five seconds had passed when blue flame suddenly erupted from the microwave. I snatched the burning socks and rushed down the hall to put them out in the drinking fountain.

I stood there, barefoot, on the cobblestone and contemplated my smoking, blackened socks that were now lying pitifully in the drain. I regretfully slopped them into the nearby garbage can and sighed. Such a good idea, but I had gotten greedy.

I strolled back down the hall, thinking, Phew. That was close.

I had just settled down to filing again when a woman from the adjacent office began screaming, “Fire! Fire!”

I guess I hadn’t counted on the fact that others might smell my error, even if they hadn’t seen it.

Later, as I stood – sockless – on 400 East with the rest of the evacuated employees from the building, I tried to look innocuous and innocent as I arranged my guilty conscience into a look of bland concern. The Salt Lake City Fire Department had been called and was searching the building for the source of the smoke; as there were no roaring flames, they began to allow people to file back into the building. In the muddle of people, the Fire Chief had been trying to locate the occupants of our suite and had been pointed in our direction.

“Sir,” the Chief addressed Brandon, “is this your office? The source of the smoke seems to have originated from your supply room. Was anyone using the microwave recently?”

Brandon looked over at me. “Kristen, you were back there. Were you using the microwave?”

“Uh, no. Uh-uh.” I mumbled, shaking my head.

“Are you sure? I thought I heard the microwave going…” Brandon began.

“No, no,” I interrupted, “not that I know of.”

The fire chief led us back to the supply room where his crew had already begun taking down the ceiling tiles.

“They say it’s not the microwave,” he said to the room.

“What’s going on here?”

Oh, heck. I’d forgotten about the one witness to my ridiculous crime – Dad, just now returning from picking up lunch was understandably concerned about the firemen milling about his offices.

“Someone reported smelling smoke, and we believe it originated in this room. Was someone using the microwave?”

Dad shot a piercing look at me. I smiled weakly and tried to subtly shake my head.

“Well,” Dad said, his eyes still boring into mine, “if no one said they were using the microwave, then I guess not.”

“Too bad,” the chief sighed. “I guess we’ll have to take the rest of the ceiling down.”

An hour later, the fire chief poked his head into the front office – where I had gone to avoid watching their wasted efforts – to report that it must have been a faulty ballast in the ceiling, and it had to be replaced. Oh, and by the way, he was also pretty sure that the microwave was defective and it ought to be thrown away – for safety’s sake.

And perhaps I ought to stay in the front offices, I added mentally, for safety’s sake.