The time was 9:26 PM on a cold February Cleveland night. I was finishing up a perfunctory email when the smoke detector sounded. It wasn’t the small one up high on the apartment wall but a large one which rang out and echoed outside my 18th floor apartment window.

All of us have experienced numerous false fire alarms over our lifetime and have been consequently conditioned to ignore them. After about 3 minutes, we wish them away. I remember once taking the batteries out of the one in my Florida condo because it kept going off whenever I cooked fish.

I was in the first week of rehearsals for an acting gig and in my temporary housing in downtown Cleveland when the alarm sounded. This was quite different than the environs of my familiar condo in Hollywood Florida, a layout I knew well and which was solidly on the ground floor.

Familiar environments are important to me, a blind person with serious balance issues. Guys like me rarely move quickly, and when we unexpectedly have to, it ain’t pretty. Adrenaline kicks in, you stumble a bit, and, at least I do, begin to shake uncontrollably like a skittish dog when thunder suddenly cracks overhead.

Of course, my first impulse was ‘another false alarm’ and continued finishing up my email when I smelled smoke. Commotion quickly filled the hallway outside my door and it struck me that I had never met a neighbor since moving in a week before. Some banging on my door turned me instantly into the dog at thunder’s first crack. I angled to the door, opened it and after a blast of smoke shrouded my head and filled my nostrils, a neighbor said, “You gotta get down the stairs right now – the elevators aren’t working.” It was no time for ‘howdy neighbor’ intros. It was cut to the chase. I said, “I’m blind and f**ked-up.” He called out to a friend, they grabbed me and said they would help me down. After noticing how long it took me to navigate 14 steps, one of my saviors politely said, “Do you mind if we carry you down?” I thought, “One slip and we are all dead people.” Considering all my options, I said, “Sure. Let’s go.”

My arms went over their shoulders, they each lifted a leg and immediately began rhythmically pounding down the steps like soldiers heading out to battle. The fellow to my right kept asking me if I was ok and I said, “I’m ok as long as you’re ok.” Truer words have never been uttered.

The sensation down the stairs was both terrifying and exhilarating – it was like being on a ride at Bush Gardens or Disney World, sort of a hybrid of Montu and Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. By the time we reached the 10th floor, they were huffing and puffing and my sweatpants were sliding off my otherwise naked body. My four-legged conveyance briefly put me down, switched sides, hoisted me up again and suddenly behind me I heard the voice of an angel – it was our stage manager rattling down the steps from the 22nd floor who now had caught up with us. She had my back. Literally. Appearing like some well-rehearsed urban dance move, she reached in and pulled up my sweatpants just as the 2 guys schlepping me downstairs began stepping lively once again.

Step, step, step, step, turn, step, step. One more brief breather on the 4th floor, and we were outdoors. It wasn’t so much that it was 16 degrees outside, nor that I was only in socks and sweats, but I was a 70-year-old Florida boy who was conditioned to shiver when the temp hit anything below 60 degrees Fahrenheit.

I was ushered into the arms of some paramedics who guided me into the lobby where there was a chair and warmth. I also connected there with my friend Peter who had heroically soldiered up the stairs from the 6th floor to help me, though we somehow didn’t cross paths on the staircase.

When you’re blind for many years, you don’t think much about your blindness. You just carry on with your normal life and don’t think about people who first meet you and don’t recognize that you can’t see. This is especially true when you were just carried down 18 flights of stairs (and we were indeed flying!) into the arms and hands of unfamiliar paramedics. They noticed my shakiness and started questioning me as to how I was feeling and if I was hurt. As a normally irreverent person, I was tempted to say, “Well, I’m blind,” without offering up that I’ve been this way for 35 years. But I chose to be appropriate and explained my blindness and consequent anxiety when I find myself in stressful situations.

For the record, once it comes up in conversation, people often tell me that I “don’t look blind.” This is possibly due to the fact that I had sight into my early 30s, and out of habit, I look at people when I speak to them. I’ve also been told that I “don’t sound blind” when speaking on the phone with someone whom I’ve never met. I’m still not sure what a blind person is supposed to look and sound like.

Other than being jacked-up from the ride, I was ok. Several other EMTs queried me again. Either they couldn’t believe that I wasn’t worse than I appeared to be or just didn’t buy that I was ok. Two of them asked me if I wanted to be taken to the hospital. “Nope, I’m cool,” was my answer each time. A nice young lady later asked if I was sure that I was feeling alright. With a wink and a nod, I said, “Nothing that a small tablet of diazepam wouldn’t fix.” She giggled. I said, “You know from diazepam?” She said, “Yes. I’m Dr. Levine.” We had a laugh and it was then that I realized I must be looking pretty funky. The long grey beard I was sporting for my character no doubt added to my curious look. The paramedics still wanted to take my vitals: blood presh was 138 over 80 and my oxygen count was 98%, vitals I could sell to any senior in Cleveland.

It turned out that someone had tossed a cigarette butt into the trash shoot near the elevators causing a fire. The billowing smoke was so thick that another actor from our company, whose apartment was near the elevators on the 22nd floor, was unable to find the stairs. She called 911 who advised her to stay in her apartment and put a wet towel across the floor by her front door and open her windows.

In short order, the fire department got the blaze under control by dumping a massive amount of water down the trash shoot. The only thing that remained out of control was the alarm announcement.

“Attention please. Attention please. We have an emergency. The elevators are not working. Please proceed quickly down the stairs and out of the building.” Apparently, when the alarm tripped, it automatically shut down the elevators. Remarkably, nobody was able to disarm the alarm. I lost count after the 47th time I heard the announcement.

I later felt a hand on my knee. Kneeling by my side was Shivam, one of the two fellows who ferried me down those 18 flights. He asked if I was ok. I covered his hand with mine and asked him where he was from. He explained that He and his roommate Yash were exchange students from Mumbai. “Are you sure you’re fine?” he asked. I asked him how you say friend in Hindi. “Dost,” he said. I patted his hand and said, “Dost.”

After 2 hours, I contemplated making the trek up the stairs to the 18th floor when security suddenly produced an elevator override key. As Peter and I stepped in, icy water quickly seeped into my socks. The elevator floor was covered with the water that had spilled over after being poured into the trash shoot to quench the fire. While the elevator was lifting me back to the 18th floor, I experienced PTSD – Profound Thankfulness for a Sudden Dost.

Steve Gladstone

The Blind Dude