Why the Local 911 Center Has Our Numbers Memorized.
Updated: Aug 24
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Before I share these stories, a little background: I spent years as a law enforcement dispatcher and communicator, then moved into healthcare security and communications for a large nonprofit hospital. I know exactly how a 911 center runs—what happens when a call comes in, the protocol, and the people behind it.
Which makes it all the more embarrassing that my neighborhood has accidentally called 911 on itself—twice—years apart, with completely different groups of people involved.
We are not proud. We are also not surprised.
Part One — The Covid Card Game
It was 2021, and the world had been through a lot. We were all doing our best to follow the “guidelines”… except for this particular evening, when five of us ladies gathered around Bev’s kitchen table to play Telestrations because we were desperate for connection—and for a little laughter.
Between the martinis and the hysterics, the game delivered hours of belly laughs and a steady rotation of “potty breaks.” Let’s just say this group goes through its fair share of pantyliners on game nights, if you catch my drift.
Bev is one of my closest friends. She lives a few blocks over, still in the Town of Algoma, just not on our street, and she and her husband, Mike, have been part of our world for years. We met them at a fire at Sean and Heather’s one night and never really let them leave. That’s how it works around here.
So, there we were: five women, game on the table, cocktails in hand, and an entirely lovely, completely unauthorized evening (such rebels).
Heather left a little earlier than the rest of us. She’s married to Sean and works as a court reporter—a detail that matters only because of what happened next.
A knock came at the window.
Nobody moved. We looked at each other, then toward the glass, and saw nothing but darkness—which somehow felt worse. A little while later it happened again: another knock, another round of wide-eyed faces around the table.
Then came a knock at the front door. Then the doorbell. Then more doorbell.
Bev finally answered, fully expecting our goofy husbands to be pulling a prank and sprinting off into the night. Instead, standing there in full uniform, was Deputy Eric.
We know Eric—he lives across from Jock on our street—but this wasn’t a neighborly visit. It was midnight, it was Bev’s front door, and he was there officially. As we dissolved into uncontrollable cackles (rebels, every one of us), Eric told Bev he was conducting a welfare check because someone at this address had called 911.
None of us had called 911. We were very clear on that. We were also very clear that five of us were gathered indoors during a time when that wasn’t exactly encouraged—and Deputy Eric was standing there counting heads.
He gave us the phone number that placed the call. We didn’t recognize it.
So we called Heather, who was home in bed. When we read her the number, she went quiet for a beat—then told us it was her son Ethan’s phone. He was a teenager at the time, and his phone had apparently been tucked into her purse and jostled around enough on the way out to accidentally dial 911 all by itself.
Heather—the court reporter—had accidentally called 911 on an illegal pandemic gathering on her way out the door.
Deputy Eric, to his enormous credit, didn’t make a big deal of any of it. We haven’t forgotten that. And I’m pretty sure Heather hasn’t either.
Part Two — Jay’s Lawn Chair Trilogy
Fast forward to fall of 2025. Social distancing is a memory, gatherings are fully legal again, and about ten of us are at Brian and Brittney’s eating smash burgers a neighbor made on his new Blackstone—which were tremendous. As the night cools, we drag our chairs into a circle around the Solo Stove, the smokeless fire pit that debuted at our house and somehow ended up in every single backyard on our street. Honestly, if one item brought our neighborhood together, it’s the Solo Stove. Hands down.
The night is going perfectly: drinks are flowing, music is playing, the fire is warm and mesmerizing, and everyone is exactly where they want to be.
Then Jay’s phone rings.
He answers—and it’s the 911 center.
His phone, resting peacefully in the drink holder on his lawn chair, had apparently decided all on its own to contact emergency services. Jay explained that he was fine, it must’ve been an accident, and he wasn’t even touching his phone. The operator understood. We all laughed. Jay settled back into his chair.
The chair rocked slightly. Jay was barely moving. And yet, for reasons that physics and common sense can’t fully explain, that chair was generating enough motion to repeatedly dial 911 from a phone sitting in a cup holder.
A second call came in.
Jay explained again. We laughed again. Someone suggested he move the phone. Jay put it right back in the cup holder. I want to be very clear: I had no part in this decision.
Not long after, the third call came in.
Jay answered, listened for two seconds, and then—without saying a word—turned and held the phone out to me. The look on his face was pure, third-strike defeat. Like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar who has simply run out of explanations.
I took the phone.
The operator didn’t bother with Jay at all. They said, calmly and with zero suspense: “Put Nikki on the phone.”
I promised—solemnly—to personally separate Jay from his phone for the rest of the evening. The operator, someone I’d worked alongside for years at that very 911 center, accepted my terms. We still laugh about it every time we see each other.
Jay’s phone spent the rest of the night inside the house. The fire continued. The drinks continued. And no further emergency calls were placed.
And that is the story of why, if you ever call 911 in our area and mention the Town of Algoma, there’s a very good chance someone on the other end will quietly ask if Nikki is available.
New here?
There’s a whole archive of neighborhood chaos waiting for you—start from the beginning.
— Nikki
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