fire

The word FIRE evokes strong feelings in most people for a good reason as old as the first ancestors of modern humans such as Homo erectus, who used fire as early as some 790,000 years ago: Uncontrolled, it can quickly destroy most everything in its path. We are at once drawn to and repelled from fire's magical dance; we can take only so much heat and light before we must either retreat to a safe and secure watching distance, or snuff it with water, dirt or some other retardant.

Born and raised in earthquake country, I have rarely given fire danger a second thought. Oh yeah, I read the labels on all our electrical appliances, clothing, bedding, and myriad other potentially flammable things we use every day. But beyond that vague consciousness, I don't think about fire. That changed last night.

I was on a business trip, staying in a high rise hotel in a suburb of Washington, DC. The day-long Board meeting I was attending had me feeling the way I always do after sitting for 8 hours straight -- sluggish and irritable. So I jumped at the opportunity to join a couple of my colleagues on a brisk walk along the Potomac. We logged about 4 miles, and I returned to my hotel room about 9 pm to refresh and relax. One hot shower, phone call home and an ice cold drink later, I had myself all tucked in to my overstuffed "Sweet Dreams" hotel bed, mindlessly surfing TV channels and generally enjoying the prolonged endorphin rush that still lingered after the march along the river. By now it was almost 11 pm, and I was definitely headed toward dreamland. I felt good knowing that I would get a decent night's sleep.

As I drifted off, I was vaguely aware of voices in the outer hallway -- those kinds of noises are typical in a large hotel -- and combined with the cacophany of the TV, they worked together to effectively drown out the first few sentences of a sudden and rather startling announcement that came blasting via hidden intercom into the sanctuary of my little room. Like a slo-mo scene in a movie, I watched myself sit up in bed and strain to decipher the message of the disembodied, heavily accented voice. I think the accent was French, but it was so strong and the speech so slurred, I had trouble making out individual words, much less figure out what they meant. I searched for the "mute" button on the remote, couldn't find it amid all the other buttons, so opted to turn off the TV altogether, and waited for a repeat message. I must say this experience was a first for me. I've stayed in hundreds of hotels in the last two decades of constant business travel, and never heard a garbled and alarming message broadcast over a hotel-wide system. I should admit that I thought I detected the words "FIRE" and "STAND BY" in the first message, so the adrenaline had already started pumping into my system. Fire?? Aren't you supposed to leave a building on fire?? Yet the announcer was anything but understandable, so I also wondered whether this was some sort of silly Friday night hoax.

A couple of minutes passsed. The voices in the hallway were louder. Curious and a little rattled, I got out of bed, standing at the door and peeping out the security eye. I couldn't see anyone. The full length closet mirror adjacent to the door reflected my state: a quick glance revealed disheveled hair, rumpled summer nightie, and just a touch of fear in my expression. I slid the mirror door aside and wondered whether I should get dressed.

Meanwhile, the noise out in the hall increased, and I caught sight of my across-the-hall neighbor, a middle aged African American man, dressed in khakis and Hawaiian shirt, standing in the doorway of his room and peering down the hall. I could hear him talking with others in the hall about whether to wait or to take the stairway down to the lobby level of the hotel. Ok, my first confirmation: there might be a fire.

I quickly dressed, threw my purse and laptop over my shoulder, and joined the others in the hallway. Not wanting to seem to anxious, I nonchalantly stood in my doorway, not fully committed to leaving my room, but ready to run at the faintest whiff of telltale smoke. At that point, I got my first glimpse of the other voices in the hall: two African American women, probably in their 40s or 50s, dressed in party clothes. A couple of African American teenage boys, who looked very agitated and were talking to the others in insistent tones. A young Latin couple, maybe in their 20s. One of them addressed me as I emerged from my room. You better get down to the lobby, he said. The fire trucks are on their way and we're supposed to evacuate the building.

Well. That was enough for me, except I immediately thought, ok, who gave that order? So I said, the Frenchman on the loudspeaker in my room said wait until another notice. I didn't hear him say to evacuate the building. But the kid was adamant. Yeah, well -- they changed that. We gotta get down there now. Then one of the women chimed in: You know, they told those folks in the Twin Towers to wait, too. And look what happened to them! With that, the teen opened the door to the back stairway and beckoned me. I turned to see whether the others were following. But nobody was moving, not an inch. Since we were on the 7th floor, taking the stairs was apparently more of a commitment than the others expected to make. In my gut, I just couldn't quite decide to take the initiative and rocket down those stairs. Still, I struggled with that 9/11 comment. But not for long. I'm not usually one to endlessly hash over my options, so when the teen moved away from the stairway, shrugged, and headed for the central stairs, I decided to duck into the back stairway and go down to the first floor to see what was going on.

I was careful to sniff the air on entering the concrete stairwell -- I felt just a little like my Chihuahua, Lusso, who sometimes sniffs the air when he's trying to detect a strange scent. I didn't smell smoke, so I started my descent. Of course I had on the most inappropriate shoes possible -- a pair of floppy, bright green mules with bows and 3 inch heels -- and I noisily clomped all the way down to the floor labeled "1". The only door I could open at that level led to the Ballroom, which looked like it had been hastily abandoned by staff who had been dismantling it after a big dinner event. Tables were half-dressed, linens thrown helter skelter on the floor and chairs, and there wasn't one person in sight. I involuntarily sniffed the air again to make sure I wasn't heading into a roaring fire as I made my way through the table maze. I reached a closed door, and quickly turned the knob and pulled it open. A closet! I didn't hear voices, I didn't see anyone, and I felt a growing sense of alarm. My heart was beating very fast, and I struggled to keep my thoughts under control. Get to an exit, get to an outside door, I kept thinking. A second and third door were also closets -- full of chairs, tables, and linens. I wheeled around and headed toward the opposite side of the football field-sized room, where I saw some closed double doors.

Once through those doors, I rounded a couple of corners and found the main lobby, which was deserted. The next level down was the main entrance to the hotel, so I ran down the final flight of stairs to get to what I knew were the outside doors. Finally, I saw people -- lots of them, milling around, half-dressed, disheveled, and a bit frightened. One lady had big, pink curlers in her hair. An elderly man had a pair of shorts on, and nothing else. His ample belly sagged over the elastic waistband. He looked tired and nervous. Outside the glass entryway were fire trucks, big red ones with flashing lights, and those blessed firemen, all dressed up in their asbestos suits. They were ready to roll, they just needed to find the fire.

So where was the fire? we were all asking that question. Were we supposed to go all the way outside? It was muggy out there, and hot. Inside, we had air conditioning and lights. Taking unlikely comfort in the crowded lobby filled with people I didn't know, I silently watched and listened to others' conversations. How long would we be here? Was there really a fire? Would we be up half the night, and end up displaced? Would the mysterious disembodied Frenchman come back over the PA system and give us some kind of clue as to our fate?

None of those questions were answered. Instead, we milled around, talking, nervously joking. Maybe 20 or 30 minutes passed. Then a couple of hotel guests walked in from outside and started telling people that it was ok to go back to the rooms, that there was no fire, and the non-emergency was now over. Well, who were they, and how did they know that? I wasn't at all assured. I felt very alone in that big crowd. It seemed that everyone else had a friend to talk to except for me. People looked past me, through me, over me, but no one spoke directly to me. Like the others around me, I hesitated to accept the latest message. I waited for further confirmation, but nothing "official" came. Maybe another 20 minutes passed. Then I became a sheep, along with everyone else.

Gradually, we began summoning the elevator cars, boarded them, and headed to the upper floors. At first I thought, how stupid is that! But then I somehow found myself shuffling forward, and ended up in the 5th or 6th group of intrepid elevator riders, not entirely sure about what I was doing, but not willing to camp out in the lobby, which was quickly becoming an empty space. In the end, I went where the others went, mostly to avoid being alone. A total sheep.

Once on the 7th floor, I headed back to my room. There were a few people in the hall, laughing and talking, and their presence made me feel somehow safe. I swiped my room key in the door and entered. The door banged shut behind me. I didn't throw the security bolt this time, mostly because I had had trouble undoing it when I was trying to get out earlier. I wanted a quick escape in case of another warning.

I shuffled toward the bed, dropped my laptop and purse on the floor, and sat down. I was more wired than if I had just consumed a gallon of espresso, and I knew it was going to be a long night. Reluctantly, listening hard to hallway noises, and occasionally sniffing the air, I changed back into my nightie, and climbed into bed. On went the TV. With one eye on the screen and the other on the door, I lay awake in purgatory.

Somewhere around midnight, The Voice returned. We are sorry for the inconvenience ... his delivery slowed, and he enunciated each word, carefully inserting a virtual space in between each one. ... but ... there ... is ... no ... emergency ... at ... this ... time.

AT THIS TIME? I thought. Ok, does that mean in 2 minutes, or 2 hours, there WILL be an emergency? Doors banged afresh in the hall. My hallmates were shouting -- what the #@* does he mean, AT THIS TIME!!?? A younger self would have thrown off the covers, hurriedly dressed and packed, and checked out of the hotel. Years ago, I had the energy and wherewithal to pack up and blow. But ... I was tired. I lay there calculating the odds. And then I turned over, turned off the light, extinguished the TV, and settled in for a long night of sleeplessness.