SATURDAY MORNING WITH CRANKY DON JOE | The Smoke Alarm Only Needs a New Battery at 3:17 in the Morning

By Cranky Don Joe

My name is Cranky Don Joe. Cranky DJ to a lot of my neighbors. I am not an expert.

Which immediately makes me more qualified than whoever designed the smoke alarm to announce a dying battery only after every hardware store within driving distance has closed.

I have never heard a smoke alarm chirp at 2:15 in the afternoon. Maybe it happens; I am not claiming to have reviewed national statistics. Somewhere in Minnesota, there may be a fortunate person whose smoke alarm politely announced a weak battery on a Saturday afternoon while that person was standing underneath it holding a fresh nine-volt battery and a stepladder. I have never met this person.

In my experience, the smoke alarm waits. It waits until the house is dark, until everybody has gone to bed, and until you have reached that rare stage of sleep where you have forgotten your mortgage, your knees, your email password, the price of groceries, and every other responsibility associated with adulthood.

Then, at 3:17 in the morning: CHIRP.

My eyes opened. I did not move. There are sounds in the night that the human brain can dismiss without assistance: the furnace starts, a tree branch touches the house, or the refrigerator does whatever refrigerators do when they think nobody is listening. But a smoke alarm chirp is different; it is short enough to make you question whether you actually heard it.

I stared into the darkness. Nothing. I closed my eyes. Maybe it was outside, maybe it was part of a dream, or maybe some distant electronic device had made a noise and my sleeping brain had assigned it to the smoke alarm. I began drifting back to sleep.

CHIRP.

I opened my eyes again. There are few moments in adult life more irritating than realizing that a problem has officially become your problem. I looked at the clock: 3:18. Of course. The smoke alarm had apparently reviewed my schedule and determined that this was the ideal time for preventive maintenance.

I got out of bed. The first challenge was locating the responsible alarm. This sounds simple because smoke alarms are attached to ceilings and generally do not move. The problem is that the chirp does not continue long enough for a human being to locate it easily. You hear the sound, you walk into the hallway, and there is silence. You stand beneath one alarm: nothing. You move beneath another: nothing. You wait: nothing.

Eventually, you begin wondering whether the chirp came from the bedroom. You return to the bedroom, and CHIRP. You rush back into the hallway: nothing. Now the smoke alarm is no longer merely signaling a low battery; it is actively playing with you.

I stood in the hallway wearing pajama pants and one sock because apparently I had found one sock important enough to put on, but had not yet developed a plan for the second foot. I looked at the alarm outside the bedroom.

"Was that you?" I asked. It did not answer.

I walked toward the kitchen. There was another alarm nearby. I stood underneath it: nothing. I waited: nothing. I crossed my arms: still nothing. At 3:22 in the morning, I was engaged in a standoff with the ceiling.

Then: CHIRP.

I turned quickly. The sound seemed to come from behind me. I walked back toward the hallway and waited. Silence.

This is when rational thought begins to deteriorate. Five minutes earlier, I had been asleep. Now I was trying to triangulate an electronic chirp using acoustic techniques I had apparently invented on the spot.

I stood halfway between the kitchen and the hallway. CHIRP. Hallway! Definitely hallway.

I moved directly beneath the hallway alarm: nothing. I waited nearly a minute: nothing. I began to suspect the bedroom alarm again. This is the true genius of the low-battery chirp: it gives you just enough information to know there is a problem, and not enough information to solve it quickly.

Eventually, I dragged a wooden dining chair into the hallway. I know what you are thinking: Don, use a proper stepladder. That is excellent advice at 11:30 in the morning. At 3:26 a.m., the kitchen chair is already there. The stepladder is in the garage, the garage is unheated, and the kitchen chair suddenly possesses qualifications it did not have during daylight hours.

I climbed onto it. This was my second mistake. My first mistake was assuming I owned a replacement battery.

I reached up and removed the alarm from its ceiling bracket. At this point, I expected victory. I had found the suspect, I had taken the suspect into custody, and all that remained was a routine battery replacement. I opened the battery compartment, and then I remembered something important: I did not know where the batteries were.

Every household has batteries, but nobody knows exactly where they are. You know the general region. There is usually a drawer or a plastic storage container containing three AAA batteries, one AA battery of uncertain age, two loose batteries nobody trusts, a watch battery for a watch you no longer own, and one enormous battery that apparently belongs to military radio equipment. What you actually need is never there.

I went to the kitchen junk drawer. The junk drawer is where household objects go after they have lost their original purpose, but have not yet earned the confidence required for disposal. I found rubber bands, takeout menus, three pens (only one of which worked), a screwdriver that was too small for every screw in the house, a key I could not identify, several twist ties, a birthday candle, and a roll of tape with approximately four inches of tape remaining. No nine-volt battery.

CHIRP.

I looked toward the hallway. Wait. The alarm was in my hand. I looked down at the alarm in my palm, then looked back toward the hallway.

CHIRP.

Friends, there are moments when the universe reveals that you have been investigating the wrong suspect entirely. I had removed a perfectly innocent smoke alarm; the guilty alarm was somewhere else.

I put the innocent alarm on the kitchen counter and stood completely still.

CHIRP.

Upstairs. I was certain now.

I went upstairs. We have all experienced this strange acoustic property of household noises: from downstairs, the sound is clearly upstairs; once you go upstairs, it becomes equally clear that the sound is downstairs.

I stood at the top of the stairs: nothing. I walked toward the guest bedroom: nothing. I checked the alarm near the bedroom door: nothing. I waited: nothing. I walked toward the other end of the hallway, and CHIRP.

I spun around. Behind me! Definitely behind me. I went back: silence.

By 3:35, I had become personally offended. A smoke alarm is an important piece of safety equipment, and I understand this. Properly functioning alarms provide critical warning when smoke or fire is detected, and batteries and alarms should be maintained according to manufacturer instructions. I have no quarrel with any of that. My quarrel is strictly with the timing.

If the device is intelligent enough to detect smoke, test its internal circuits, monitor its power supply, and announce that its battery needs attention, I would like somebody to explain why it cannot wait until breakfast. Give me a reasonable warning! "Don, the battery is getting low. You have until Thursday." Fine! Put it on the calendar, send me a memo, and we will handle it during normal business hours.

Instead: CHIRP. You have been summoned.

At some point during my investigation, I made the mistake of calling Larry. I did not call him because I needed physical help; I want the official record to reflect this. I called because Larry had recently replaced several smoke alarms in his house, and I thought he might know whether there was some obvious trick for identifying which unit was chirping.

Larry answered on the fourth ring. "Hello?" "Larry," I said. There was a long pause. "Don?" "Yes." "Do you know what time it is?" "Yes." "What happened?" "Smoke alarm." Another pause. "Fire?" "No." "Smoke?" "No." "Then why are you calling me?" "Battery."

Larry was silent for several seconds. "You called me at three-thirty in the morning because your smoke alarm needs a battery?" "I called because I can't figure out which one is making the noise." "Listen for the chirp," he said.

I closed my eyes. "Thank you, Larry. I had not considered listening for the sound." "Well, where is it coming from?" "If I knew where it was coming from, Larry, I would not have called you!" "Walk around until it chirps." "I HAVE BEEN WALKING AROUND!" "Don't yell at me, Don. My smoke alarms are fine."

That was completely unnecessary, and I told him so. Larry asked how many alarms I had in the house, and I gave him an approximate count.

"Could be any of them," he said. This was the brilliant expertise I had awakened him to receive.

Then Larry became interested, which was significantly worse.

"Wait," he said. "When did it start?" "About twenty minutes ago." "How often does it chirp?" "I don't know, Larry. Every minute or so." "Exactly every minute?" "I am not timing it with a stopwatch!" "You should time it." "Why?" "Might help." "Help with what?" "Diagnosis." "THE DIAGNOSIS IS A DYING BATTERY!" "Probably," he said.

I stopped. "Probably?" "Could be something else."

This is what happens when you involve Larry: a dying battery has now become an open diagnostic mystery. He asked whether the alarm had an indicator light. Yes. What color? I did not know. Was it blinking? Possibly. How many times? I had not conducted a formal census. Larry told me to check all the other alarms in the house.

I asked whether he was planning to come over. "No," he said. "Then why are you suddenly managing the operation?" "You're the one who called me."

Fair point. I hung up on him.

CHIRP.

This time I was ready. I had positioned myself in the upstairs hallway and waited without moving a muscle. The chirp came directly from the guest room. I entered, saw the alarm on the ceiling, and stood directly underneath it.

Nothing. I waited: nothing. I stared at it.

"Go ahead," I whispered. Nothing. "You've been doing it all night." Nothing. "Do it now." Nothing.

I waited another thirty seconds: nothing. I turned and walked toward the bedroom door, and CHIRP.

I turned around so fast I nearly pulled a muscle in my back. "YOU."

I went downstairs to get the kitchen chair, then reconsidered. It was after 3:40 in the morning, and even I recognized that carrying a wooden chair upstairs while half asleep was the sort of decision that ends with somebody explaining an embarrassing injury to an emergency-room nurse. I went out to the cold garage and got the stepladder. This annoyed me because it meant that responsible adult judgment had finally entered the situation, approximately thirty minutes late.

I climbed carefully, opened the alarm, and removed the battery. Then came the moment every homeowner knows: I needed a nine-volt battery, and I did not have one. Of course I didn't! Why would the correct battery be in the house? I had seventeen batteries for electronics I could no longer identify, but not the single battery required to stop the sound that was slowly destroying my sanity.

I went back downstairs and searched another cabinet: nothing. I searched the basement shelf where miscellaneous household supplies accumulate: light bulbs, extension cords, furnace filters, picture hooks, and a cardboard box containing cables for electronics we stopped using during the Obama administration. No useful battery.

CHIRP.

I went back upstairs. There is something especially insulting about a smoke alarm chirping while you are actively trying to solve its problem.

"I AM WORKING ON IT!" I yelled. CHIRP. "I HEARD YOU!"

At 3:51, Larry sent me a text message: Find it? I did not respond. Another message arrived: Need a battery?

I stared at the phone screen, then called him immediately. "You have one?" "Probably," he said. "What does probably mean?" "I think there's a pack in my utility drawer." "Why didn't you mention this earlier?" "You didn't ask." "Larry, I called you at three-thirty in the morning about a smoke alarm battery!" "I thought you had batteries, Don." "If I had the battery, do you think we would still be discussing this?" "Maybe. You couldn't find the alarm."

I dislike that man sometimes.

Five minutes later, I was walking across the street in sweatpants, a winter coat, slippers, and one glove because I could not immediately locate the matching one. Minnesota has seen stranger things, but probably not on our residential block at four in the morning.

Larry opened his front door holding a small package of batteries. He looked far too pleased with himself.

"Morning," he said. "Do not say morning." "It is morning, Don." "It is still night until I have consumed coffee."

He handed me the package, then looked down at my feet. "Are those slippers?" "Give me the batteries, Larry." "I already gave them to you." "Then close the door." "Want me to come help?" "No." "You sure?" "Contractually sure." "Because sometimes the chirp can be hard to locate."

I stared at him until he closed the door.

I returned home, installed the fresh battery, reattached the alarm, climbed down the ladder, and waited. Silence. Beautiful, unbroken silence. I stood there for a full minute: nothing. I went downstairs: nothing. I returned the chair to the kitchen: nothing.

I got back into bed. The clock read 4:09. I pulled up the blanket, closed my eyes, and exhaled.

CHIRP.

No. I did not move.

CHIRP.

Absolutely not! I sat straight up. The sound had come from downstairs. I walked into the hallway, and CHIRP.

Kitchen! I went downstairs. CHIRP. Not kitchen: hallway. I stood beneath the innocent alarm I had removed earlier, and CHIRP. It was not that alarm either.

Then I heard it again. This time the sound was unmistakably coming from the basement. I descended the basement stairs slowly. There, near the utility room, was another smoke alarm. I had forgotten about it entirely. Of course I had forgotten about it! Nobody knows how many smoke alarms are in their house until one of them starts chirping at 3:17 in the morning. Then the home becomes an active map of every ceiling-mounted device you have ignored for years.

I replaced that battery too. Silence. I waited: nothing. I stood in the cold basement for two full minutes because I no longer trusted silence.

Eventually, I returned upstairs. The clock said 4:26. I climbed into bed again, and nothing chirped.

At 4:31, I was still awake. At 4:37, I'm still awake. At 4:42, I began actively listening for a chirp that was no longer happening. That may be the cruelest part of the entire experience: once the sound actually stops, your brain continues the night shift. You lie there waiting: Was that it? No. Maybe now? Nothing. Surely now? Nothing. The house had finally become quiet, but I had been trained not to trust it.

Eventually, I fell asleep. At 6:15, I woke to the sound of a garbage truck down the street. I slept for perhaps ninety minutes.

I went downstairs and made coffee. The house looked completely normal: sunlight came through the kitchen window, the refrigerator hummed, the furnace ran, and the smoke alarms sat quietly on their ceilings looking entirely innocent.

Larry came over around eight o'clock carrying the battery package. "You left these on my porch." "I know." "You only used two." "I know." "You should probably replace the batteries in the others while you have the ladder out."

I looked at him. "Leave." "I'm serious, Don." "Leave, Larry." "If two are going..." "GET OFF MY PROPERTY."

He laughed and walked back across the street.

The irritating thing is that Larry was not entirely wrong. That afternoon, after I had slept and regained enough adult judgment to use a stepladder without turning the event into an insurance claim, I checked the rest of the alarms and their batteries according to their instructions. I also put replacement batteries where I could actually find them: not in the junk drawer, not behind the birthday candles, and not in a mysterious plastic bag beneath a collection of obsolete charging cables. I gave them a proper, designated place.

This is one of the humiliations of adulthood: occasionally, the ridiculous thing that ruins your night turns out to be reminding you of something sensible. The smoke alarm was not persecuting me; it was doing its job. The battery was getting weak, and the device was telling me. My real complaint was that I wanted important safety information delivered strictly according to my convenience.

That is how most of us would prefer life to operate: the car should need service when we are already near the mechanic, the furnace filter should become dirty while we are standing in the hardware store aisle, the plumbing should develop a leak during regular business hours, and the smoke alarm should request a battery at 2:00 on a Saturday afternoon when we are fully dressed, well rested, and holding the correct replacement battery.

Instead, household problems have their own schedule. They do not check ours, and maybe that is why a tiny chirp at 3:17 in the morning can make a grown man so angry. The sound itself is small; it is the announcement that your plans have been completely overruled. You were sleeping, now you are not; you were comfortable, now you are standing in a hallway wearing one sock; you believed you knew where the batteries were, but you did not; you believed you knew how many smoke alarms were in your own house, but you did not know that either; and you believed Larry would be useful, which was your most serious error of all.

A few nights later, I was sleeping peacefully when I heard something: CHIRP.

My eyes opened instantly. I looked at the clock: 3:11. I sat straight up.

CHIRP.

I got out of bed immediately. This time I was fully prepared: I knew where the batteries were, I knew where the stepladder was, and I knew the location of every smoke alarm in the building. I walked into the hallway, and CHIRP.

The sound was subtly different. I followed it toward the kitchen, and CHIRP. I stopped near the counter. It was coming from the kitchen counter. I looked around, and CHIRP.

Then I saw it: Larry had loaned me a small digital kitchen timer several days earlier. Its battery was dying.

I picked it up. CHIRP.

I stared at it for several long seconds. Then I walked to the front door, opened it, crossed the street in my pajamas, and placed the timer carefully on Larry's front porch. I did not ring the bell, I did not knock, and I did not leave a note. I simply left it there and returned home.

The next morning, Larry called. "Did you leave my kitchen timer on my porch?" "Yes," I said. "At three in the morning?" "Approximately." "Why?" "Battery."

There was a long pause. "You could've just changed it, Don." "I could have." Another pause. "Don?" "Yes?" "Was it chirping?"

I took a slow sip of coffee. "You're still trying to determine that." I hung up on him. Friends, sometimes the system works.

Until next time, Cranky DJ

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