"Bugger off," I mumbled, turning over to try to get back to sleep.
At which point, the fire-alarm went off in the hall outside my apartment. "Well," I thought, "I'd better get up. It might be real."
And in fact, there was smoke and many sleepy, curious faces peering out from their apartments.
The hoser across the hall, who used to own a gila monster and spends his summers polishing his Harley, told me it was from an apartment in the basement. "It was those Indians," he said, shaking his head. "I don't know why they let those people in here."
Casual racism was not something I wanted to deal with at 5:00 o'clock on my "Sunday" morning. I waved him off and started towards the front of the building, hoping to get some information without Toronto Sun style editorial content. The concierge's assistant, a big, burly, bearded man probably from India or Pakistan whose name I've never been able to remember (he is, though, one of the rudest people I've ever met - greeting him in the hallway, you're lucky if you get a grunt in reply), also muttered something about "those Indians", and I shook my head at the state of the world.
I headed out front just as the fire-trucks were pulling up. I let them in and they soon returned to report it was just smoke. Something left in the oven, apparently. One of "those Indians" in question, a small, chubby man of maybe 30 or so was talking with one of the firemen. "It's a good thing I came home," he said. "My room-mate might have died of smoke inhalation!"
And there you have it: An anti-climax after all. Which makes for a dull post, but a better life - if I can wash my head clear of the bigotry.