All your life, you tell yourself you’re prepared for it but, when the time comes, there’s shock and disbelief. There’s the disquieting sense that maybe there’s been some mistake. That this simply cannot be.

I think I might be the Chosen One.

Now, hear me out before you go spraying Irish coffee all over the breakfast table, mister. I’m not saying I was sent here to save the world or anything grand like that. I’m just saying that when it comes to sirens moaning their way through the city, I understand them as though they are singing their sad songs just for me.

It’s all very troubling. From the very first time I visited Lewiston, I’ve been fascinated by the never-ending wail of the sirens, our version of bongos in the jungle.

Coming down on the team bus during those glory days of Waterville youth hockey. As soon as we cross the city line, the sirens start screaming like banshees unhappy to see us come. The kids crowd to the bus windows. Adults pass nervous glances back and forth.

“Probably nothing,” they say. “Just a minor car crash or a false alarm.”

But I knew better. I knew by the intensity and pitch of those sirens that something had gone horribly wrong. Something was burning. People were hurt.

This gift distracted me so much, I played horrible hockey and actually put the puck in my own net at one point. Yes, this is the reason I played so poorly and lost us a shot at the championship.

Later, back in Lewiston with a girlfriend who took a job at an elementary school. Before we could unpack our very first box, the sirens started telling their mournful tales.

“What the hell?” I asked her.

The girlfriend nodded knowingly. “We call it the Lewiston Daily Parade. You get used to it.”

Sure, sure. Like the people who live near Niagra Falls. They say after a little time has passed, they no longer hear the thunder of raging water or the pounding of all those tourist feet rushing in to take corny pictures.

I never got used to the bright red shrieking of sirens in Lewiston, though. They speak to me. They keep me on edge. Although the dreadful sound comes from the same machinery, each siren is distinct to my ear. Some are screaming in horror. Some are just going through the motions, parting traffic so they can get to another kitchen fire where some dolt has burned his macaroni and cheese.

I can tell the difference, I tell you. I can distinguish between urgency and routine in the rise and fall of those siren songs. I have an ear like a dog when it comes to the stories told by the ambulance, the cop car or the fire engine groaning down Sabattus and hooking left on Old Greene.

The ordinary human ear hears this: “WEEEE, OOOOH, WEEEE, OOOOH, WEEEE, OOOOH.”

My exceptional Chosen One ear, on the other hand, gets a more complete story: “WEEEE (house on fire) OOOOH, (started by a candle) WEEEE (the scent is Summer Jasmine) OOOOH, (my pen is out of ink. There’s a spare under the seat).”

Nine out of 10 times you hear a firetruck whining its way down Ash Street, it’s a routine call. More burning Kraft mac and cheese or some impish kid pulling an alarm. My ear first rises in alarm and then settles back to its ordinary position, like Dumbo on Cialis. All day, every day, I’m in deep communication with the sirens, deciphering their emergencies in varying degrees.

“WEEEE (kid stuck in tree) OOOOH (nope, he’s down now and so is the cat) WEEEE (wow, kid’s mom is kind of hot) OOOOH…”

I also have an extra sense that tells when people are laughing at me and I sense that you’re doing it right now. “HA HA HA,” you bellow in that annoying way you have. “THIS TWIT THINKS HE CAN COMMUNICATE WITH EMERGENCY VEHICLES THE WAY ACE VENTURA COMMUNICATES WITH BIRDS! HA HA HA! WHAT A MAROON!”

Scoff all you’d like, scoffing scoffer. I can also distinguish the sound of a cop car approaching even when it’s blocks away. Something about the sound of those police issue tires or the authoritative hum of those Crown Vic engines. This would be extremely helpful if I was a cat burglar or prostitute.

But, no. I’m just a humble reporter listening to the daily parade of sirens, interpreting their grim ballads and reacting accordingly. This one requires a fast response. This one doesn’t require any response at all. And on and on, from dawn’s earliest light into the deep darkness of the witching hour.

Here comes one now, an ambulance throbbing its way down Pleasant Street with a brand new song. It’s highest notes rise all the way to the clouds while the low ones scrape the pavement. Yes. Yes, I understand of what it sings. A psychiatric patient needs caring for. The poor fool thinks he can communicate with machines, or something ridiculous like that.

Actually, this one sounds kind of interesting. I believe I’ll grab my notebook and chase it down.

Has anybody seen my pen?