So I was dancing alone in my living room to the Glee version of Don't Stop Believing, waiting for the toast I was having for dinner to pop, and simultaneously answering the questions of why I keep my living room curtains closed and why I'm still single, when alarm bells went off.
I don't mean abstract alarm bells telling me that my ass was jiggling just a bit too long after I stopped shaking it, or that perhaps I should think more seriously about retirement planning. I mean actual alarm bells. Fire alarm bells.
My first thought was that I was never, ever going to make toast again if this is what happens, but the alarms weren't coming from my smoke detectors.
Rather, these were the ear-splitting alarms for the entire building -- one a ringing bell, the other a high-pitched mechanical chirping that caused blood to ooze from my ears and dolphins to beach themselves on nearby shores.
Overall, an interesting development. There was obviously something I should be doing in response, but at the same time, this must be a mistake.
The bells would stop, whatever caused them to go off in error would be sorted and I could continue shaking my booty undisturbed. All would be well as long as I stood perfectly still, hands over my ears, waiting.
Above me people started running. I could hear the pounding footsteps, multiple doors slamming and the urban equivalent of the running of the bulls in the stairwell next to my apartment. Shit just got real. Time to officially panic.
According to my calculations and all of the expert knowledge acquired from repeated viewings of the movie Backdraft and occasional viewings of the 2010 Fireman's Calendar, I had 30 seconds to grab what mattered in my life and get out. Then I was down to 18 seconds because the first shoes I put on were not my favourites and I would be damned if those were the only shoes that made it safely out of my home.
Now 10 seconds because photographs I could never replace are in two different rooms and now 5 seconds left because I unplugged the wrong cords and can't free my laptop and I have to leave it but if the fire is on the third floor and I'm on the second I can always run back inside at the last second while three extraordinarily good looking firefighters try to stop me and the headline in tomorrow's newspaper would read, "Heroic Woman Dies Trying to Save Decade Old Laptop, Shoe."
By the time I was running down the stairs behind an elderly woman and her miniature poodle, I was wearing my favorite boots under my rattiest yoga pants, a sweater inadequate for the rain that was coming down, and carrying in my purse three picture frames and three signed David Sedaris books.
I regretted not also grabbing a piece of toast. If I was about to be homeless and wearing a blanket supplied by the Salvation Army while I watched everything I had ever worked for and bought at IKEA turned to ash, I should probably eat.
Out on the front lawn, my fellow condo owners milled about, some cradling babies, some clutching dogs. Nobody else had brought their laptop either, or any other household items that I could see. Apparently this had never happened, nobody knew what had caused it, but most were sure it was a false alarm.
Some decided to step back inside momentarily to check their mail, since the boxes were right there after all. One guy went back in to get a granola bar before rejoining the crowd. The elderly woman handed her poodle to her neighbor so she could go inside and get the dog his coat.
I used my cell phone to call one of the gays to let him know I would probably not be coming over that night to watch America's Next Top Model as planned, because my building was on fire.
The sirens blaring and getting closer in the background certainly added legitimacy to what otherwise may have sounded like a far-fetched excuse, and led to a somewhat unfortunate exchange.
Bambi: Yeah so, I probably won't make Top Model tonight.
Gay: Why the hell not?
Bambi: I'm standing outside of my building waiting for fire trucks because it might be on fire.
Gay: Really??
Bambi: Firetrucks are actually coming. Crap. I should really go fix myself.
Gay: Do not go back in the building.
Bambi: But they're actual firefighters, and they're coming to my building.
Gay: Which is probably why you shouldn't go back in.
Bambi: But I look like crap.
Gay: You're an idiot. Call me if you're coming over.
After hanging up, I went back inside to brush my hair and put on lip gloss. I sniffed for smoke first and tested the air for unnatural heat so I felt fairly confident I could do so without dying, and I was glad I did.
When all the firefighters were exiting the building, having turned off the alarm that had been tripped by old age and wiring, one young, very blue-eyed firefighter turned to me and smiled as I stood back outside on the lawn, lips freshly glossed and eating a cold piece of toast. Totally worth the risk.
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