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Thursday, July 18, 2002 AIR RAID!!! I mean--fire drill! We just had a fire drill here at Borg Inc. It scared the living crap out of me. One of our AVPs (scarcely older than me) was sitting in my cube, shooting the bull. Suddenly, the lights flicker on and off. Then, out of the sky (or out of the speakers posted near the ceilings, I forget which,) comes a loud, scary alarm. I totally freaked out. Kelly got a big kick, later, out of imitating my facial expression at the time of incident. Borg Inc. really should warn new hires of this sick, frightening procedure-- particularly of the nasality of the voice of the woman on the intercom. "PLEASE. GO. TO THE NEAREST STAIRWELL," she brayed in her loud, nasal monotone. I took my purse. Kelly laughed some more. "We're not *going* anywhere," she told me. While we waited, flanking the walkway near the exit, a man exited the restroom a good three minutes after the alarm. Kelly and I giggled like the corporate professionals we are. "I would have just stayed in," she whispered. Next time, I'm ready. Next time, I'll stop, drop, roll, and scream, "DUCK, JIM! THE VC'S ARE HIDING IN THE TREES! MY EYES! MY E-E- E-E-EYES!!" Then I'll settle for a cool million and retire. I Made Firemen Come Yesterday I pulled into my apt. parking space after work, and the little tar machine thing was parked nearby like it very often is, and smoke and stuff was coming out, but it didn't smell like anything. I walked to my apartment, smiling cordially at the man on the ladder with a bucket of tar in his hand, breathing in the scent of the oleanders outside my door. I went into my kitchen. Oh my god, it smelled like gas! I searched my cats' faces for answers. Oh my god, they looked anxious and pained! I called the landlord's special emergency pager. "My kitchen smells all like gas and stuff!" I said into his voicemail. I went outside to clear my head. Two neighbors discussed the fact that the landlord was on vacation. "What the hell?" I told them. "My apartment smells like gas! I guess I have to call the fire department!" They gave me empathetic looks. I called Information and got the Fire Department Non-Emergency number. I called that number. It said to call 911 after hours. I did. I told my situation to the surly person on the other end of the line. "It might just be the tar," I said, "But I don't know because it doesn't smell like tar outside -- only in my apartment." "Sending out an engine," she intoned. "Wait," I said. "Can't you just send a guy?" "Send a guy?" she bitchily repeated. "No, ma'am, I have to send an engine. Engine on the way." D'oh! How embarrassing. I considered just hiding in my apartment, but then decided to be a woman about it and go greet the engine, which was there almost immediately, sirens, light, and all. And wouldn't you know that over by the front gate, it smells like tar? And that tar smells rather similar to gas? Three fire guys get off ("get off" -- haw, haw!) and say, "Hmm. Smells like tar out here." They troop into my kitchen. "Still smells like tar." One of them was kind of hot. I made embarrassed small talk. They politely listened for thirty seconds, then said, "It smells like tar," and left. The cats were still acting weird and anxious. But then I put cat food in their bowl and suddenly they were okay. |