Where There's Smoke

For the past week or so, my suitemate Mike has had problems with our floor's Ethernet hub which is located in the upper corner of his closet. It functions well, but the fans that keep it cool have taken to whining quite loudly at times, and PRH tech services have been characteristically slow to respond. This morning when I awoke around 3:00 to a loud buzzing sound, I thought the problem had gotten truly out of hand. I went over to see it Mike was going to smash the whole thing (I had given the plan my blessing days ago), but I found that the noise was instead coming from the firealarms in the hall. We took a moment to decide whether or not we ought to stay or leave, considering the likelihood that this was a heavy drinker's idea of St. Paddy's Day fun. An inspection of the hall revealed acrid smoke and people shouting to each other, "It's a real fire! It's a real fire!" Thus we concluded that a prompt exit would be prudent.

I hurried back to my room to put on some shoes, and I recall that as I tied my laces in a half-asleep state I looked for my paperback copy of Ulysses but was unsuccessful. My friend Claire is right: I am obsessed with that book. Anyway, bookless but shod I joined the file in the back stairway. Leah, one of the RAs, was waiting at the third floor, shouting at us to use emergency exit instead of cutting through the building to the main door, but I had to reshout the order once we reached the critical juncture since the people ahead of me we still mostly asleep. We found ourselves waiting for about a quarter of an hour in the freshfallen snow across the street. I took lots of jabs about looking like Hugh Hefner in my blue Bill Blass bathrobe, and word got around that the culprit behind our interrupted slumber was our unreliable elevator (which I've always hated and avoided as much as possible). Upon returning I opened my window all the way and tried to get the party started again with a cry for an early-morning Guinness, but I had no takers.