Do you see what’s parked out front, dearest reader? (Besides the giant black truck.) Yes, that’s a Spokane Valley Fire Department
apparatus. That’s right, kiddies, it’s
time for a …. FIRE DRILL!!
The word went out weeks ago.
“Fire Drill at 9:00 a.m. Here’s
your evacuation plan. Proceed to your
check point and wait until given the all-clear.” I devoted hours of my day to memorizing the
layout – tracing the arrows marking the route to freedom with my finger –
imagining the chaos that I, alone, could control. Others were caught up with “working”, wasting
those precious hours between 8:30 and 5:30.
Pshah. I am Kat – your only hope.
I went to my supervisor.
“Do not worry. I am a Community
Emergency Response Team trainee. I will
make sure that this office is evacuated in an orderly fashion with few or no
casualties.”
Her response was seeping with her overwhelming relief at the
revelation of my skill set - “Uh, ok.”
Then the magical morning finally arrived. The sun was still low in the sky on this
early autumn day, a sky which was hazed over by the smoke from ACTUAL fires
(this is eastern Washington, folks). It
lent an ethereal quality to the scene, settling about the fire truck and the
half-dozen or so firefighters who stood around it. They were tense with excitement and
anticipation, but expertly masked it with a long-practiced expression of
boredom. This was, of course,
intentionally done to keep us calm.
I’m in my cubicle, staring at the clock…8:58, 8:58 and 30
seconds, 8:59, 8:59 and 30 seconds….ready to pounce. My lioness instincts, finely honed during my
months of fire training and firefighter fantasizing, strain my patience.
Then the alarm lights start to flash – and a blaring siren
sounds. I am on my feet in a flash. My coworkers, in their untrained ignorance,
fail to realize the gravity of the situation as they lock desks, log out of
computers, reach for handbags.
(I must admit, it did momentarily occur to me to grab my
$250 purse. But then I realized that the
building was on fire and I would need both hands free to tend to the
wounded. So I left it in my desk.)
After wasting precious seconds gathering their stuff, my
cohorts shuffled toward the exits, intoxicated by the green illumination which
beckoned them to their safety. I stood
in the closest doorway, directing, reassuring, Katting. A few of the more chivalrous held the door
for me and offered to let me through. Of
course, as captain of the ship, I must be the last to leave. With a shrug, they move on. Poor, untrained souls.
Once outside and at the designated rendezvous point, all
heads present and accounted for, no spurting blood injuries, I felt I could
finally let my guard down a little and step out of my zone. I recognized the Fire Marshal from my Spokane
Valley Open House trip, but since he was involved in a discussion with the
building administrator, I kept my distance.
Our eyes met briefly, I gave him a “thumbs up.” He nodded in return, as one professional hero
to another, an unspoken, unseen vibration which can only be detected by the
most valiant passing between us. Good
work, Kat.
Back at my desk 20 minutes later, I stood in my cubicle and
surveyed my territory. My charges had
all returned to their jobs, innocent heads bent over a series of worn keyboards. I wonder how many of them realize how close
they had just come to a simulated fiery death.
But such is the burden of the first responder. We carry the weight of the rescue, the thrill
of the charge – and after; alone, ungratified, we ponder the universe.
Such is the burden of the fire drill.
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