Old Men in Orange Hats

There is something happening at my work that no human with a modicum of humor should miss. It is entitled "The Fire Drill." My first experience with "The Fire Drill" occurred during my grammar school days. Tradebabe would line up with her line partner, and "QUIETLY" exit the building escorted by a frumpy teacher cursing the disturbance under her breath. Said teacher would "count heads," and the gym teacher would check the building to ensure safe departure of all students. Fire drills sucked in school cause tradebabe was usually partners with some sniffly kid named Matt and would frequently get yelled at for stopping at the water fountain during the parade down the hall to the Fire Exit. (You would think that the habitual use of water would be encouraged during a fire emergency). Not too soon thereafter came college, where forgotten popcorn in the microwave and drunk freshmen boys set off a nightly ritual of assembling outside Murphy Hall and stealing 4 am cigarettes from random teary-eyed girls. Upon my graduation and entrance into the "real world," tradebabe was surprised to learn that she had not graduated from the ritual of "The Fire Drill." In fact, "The Fire Drill" takes on added signifigance when managed by older colleagues who proudly prop orange mesh caps onto their heads, stuff themselves into bright orange mesh vests, and carry outdated walkie talkies to ensure my safe departure from the building. Yes, we have "Fire Marshals." The sorriest job of the "Fire Marshal" is to erratically wave little orange flags on a flexible pole to indicate to me where I should stand as my workplace burns to the ground. There is nothing that builds respect for a colleague like watching him in an orange hat waving a little flag while saying "is the East hall clear?" into the equivalent of a black suitcase. At least in grammar school, the gym teacher timed us.

P.S. I work DIRECTLY across from a FIRE STATION. Yes, I swear the FIRE STATION is across the street.