Of Fire and Men

January 2. Sunny. A fire alarm shatters the peace that around here we call 950am. Staff are still shuffling about, filling water bottles and lingering at the water dispensers.   

W saunters over, giggling, “So… Are we to run for our lives?” I skidded my eyeballs in their track as they attempted a Linda Blair-360-degree-head-turning.

Seriously, if there is indeed a fire, we may safely assume two scenarios. One, you are not gasping for air, therefore there is no fire; Two, the fire is real, but your lung capacity allows you to spit out complete sentences despite an oxygen-deprived environment, therefore you are quite quite capable of slinking down the stairs in one piece.

A second bell saved my retinas from any possible permanent damage, “Ding ding dong dong. There is no cause for alarm. Please continue to be chained down to your desks while we investigate what triggered the earlier alarm.”

The cause was revealed to be smoking crumbs from the toaster, and the incident declared a fluke. All was well in the bullpen again.

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