Coffeehouse Chronicles ...and “This is 9-1-1. Hello?”

"No, I'm fine. I promise"

The oddest thing happened to me last night—one of those moments that jerks you straight out of sleep and leaves you wondering if reality just glitched.

I was deep asleep, probably somewhere in my third REM cycle, minding my own business, when suddenly I heard a voice:

“THIS IS 9-1-1. HELLO. THIS IS 9-1-1. Do you have an emergency?”

Now, there is absolutely no graceful way to wake up to that. One second you're dreaming, the next you’re trying to decide if you’re in danger, hallucinating, or somehow already part of an emergency you haven’t been briefed on.

I jolted upright, heart racing, scanning the room like I’d just been drafted into a situation. Then I looked over at my nightstand—and there it was. My cell phone. Lit up. On an active call.

With 9-1-1.

Apparently, in the middle of the night, my phone had decided—on its own, mind you—that I needed emergency services.

Meanwhile, the dispatcher, who had clearly escalated from mild concern to “something is deeply wrong here,” was trying to get my attention. All he’d probably been hearing up to that point was me snoring like a man who had zero idea he’d triggered a governmental response.

I mumbled something halfway between an apology and a denial, trying to convince both the deputy on the other side and myself that I was, in fact, alive, conscious, and not trapped under anything.

Tom doesn't trust tech anyway.

The weird part is… this isn’t even the first time this has happened to me.

About six months ago, I had a similar run-in—this time courtesy of my watch.

Earlier that day I’d been out flying with my buddy Nic. Flying with Nic is always a good time, but his plane doesn’t have AC. For non-aviators, let me just explain that there’s a pre-flight checklist you have to go through on the tarmac… and doing that in a sealed metal box with no air conditioning basically turns the cockpit into a sauna with wings.

Nic promises me that the next plane he gets will have AC.

By the time I got home, I was drenched. I mean, I looked like I’d jogged back from the airport. So naturally, the first thing I did was jump in the shower.

I got cleaned up, came out feeling human again, and sat down in the living room next to the HB while she watched one of her favorite shows—you know, those cheerful programs that are basically titled “This Is Why You Can’t Get Away With Murder.”

Then my phone rang.

I answered it casually, expecting anything other than what I heard:

“Hi, this is a 9-1-1 operator. How are you?”

I just stared at the phone for a second.

“...I’m fine… uh, who is this again?”

She repeated, very politely—almost too politely:

“This is 9-1-1. Your watch called us. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

So now I was looking at my phone… then at my watch… then back at my phone… trying to understand when exactly my accessories decided they were in charge of my well-being.

I glanced over at the HB. She was fully engrossed in one of her shows about how people get caught after doing something terrible. I nodded slowly to myself, like, okay… noted… environment assessed.

I explained to the operator that I was fine, though in my head, I was a little concerned that my watch knew something I didn't.

And that’s when she casually drops:

“That’s good to hear, sir… but there’s a deputy outside your house to make sure.”

Of course there was.

I walked over to the front window, pull the curtain aside, and sure enough—there was a squad car parked out front like I’ve done something worth documenting.

So I went to the door, opened it, and there was a very nice deputy standing there, smiling at me like this is all perfectly normal.

“Hello sir. How are you?”

And there I was—again—standing in my pajamas, reassuring law enforcement that I was fine and that my electronics have simply… overreacted.

She looked me over, confirmed that I appeared alive, uninjured, and was not involved in a crime, and we went our separate ways.

So now, fast forward back to last night.

After hanging up with 9-1-1—again—I tried to go back to sleep. But how do you do that when your phone has already demonstrated that it might, at any moment, decide you require official intervention?

I laid there in the dark thinking:

• Is it going to happen again?

• What exactly triggered it?

• Am I about to wake up to a full SWAT team because I rolled over wrong?

And to make matters worse, this time the dispatcher on the other end was a lot more intense—probably because from his perspective, he’d just been connected to a man who called 9-1-1 and then immediately went silent except for loud, committed snoring.

He was practically shouting into the void trying to get my attention.

Honestly, I can’t even blame him.

At this point, I’m starting to notice a pattern.

My watch calls 9-1-1. My phone calls 9-1-1.

Both times, I was completely fine… just minding my own business… usually in pajamas.

Meanwhile, my devices have apparently decided:

“This man cannot be trusted to monitor his own safety.”

I’m not sure what I did to earn this level of concern, but it’s clear that somewhere inside my electronics is a very anxious personality with a direct line to emergency services.

And now I’ll go to sleep every night wondering if I’m about to wake up to:

“This is 9-1-1. Hello?”

again… because apparently, even when I’m asleep, my gadgets are out here trying to save me from absolutely nothing.

You know what to do:  Drink ‘em if ya got ‘em!

#coffeehousechronicles