It was SxSW, so we went out to some parties. Then when we got home, we had some wine. Then we had some more. Then we went to bed.
At 4 a.m., an ear-splitting fire alarm was not quite enough to rouse us. We incorporated it into our firehouse dreams. Then the second one went off. We were on the fifth floor, so naturally we took time to get dressed, gather our laptops and cameras, and chat about whether we should bother to leave the room. Then I looked out the window.
Fire trucks. Yay.
In the hall, there were about twenty people heading in the opposite direction of the exit signs.
“Where are you guys going?”
Stupids. We took the stairs. We passed an attractive and placid firefighter on the way down and considered following him back up, but it seemed arduous.
The fire trucks were still there when we got downstairs, and the alarms were still going off. There were about five people in the parking lot.
“There’s no one out here.”
“People are stupid.”
We sat down on the curb for a while. We got up.
“I’m putting this picture on the Internet.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
After our photo op, Helen Jane took a moment to weep with exhaustion. Anna Beth and I decided to go for shakes until the alarms stopped. Helen Jane thought she could sleep through the shrieking, and presumably the immolation. So we parted ways.
We headed to a local cafe, where we were the only patrons aside from two musicians and a truck driver who commented that we looked real pretty. Thanks, truck driver.
They didn’t have milkshakes.
In the end, there was no fire, just standing water in the basement that was triggering the alarm for some reason.
When we got back to the room, we drew a sharpie mustache on Helen Jane. She was a good sport about it.