Break glass for alarm, it says.
I push on the glass, but instead it yields to my push, it is more like plastic than glass. I keep pressing until finally I hear the alarm. It is distant at first, it comes from other rooms but then I hear the sound nearer.
The smoke gathers, thick and grey, curling from the ceiling.
“We got to get outta here!” I yell.
I run through different rooms, see fire spreading from the walls. In one room, an entire iron faced wall is pockmarked with fire and red embers, a large fireball rolls behind.
I climb up and out of the warehouse, into a front yard, into air. People have already started to gather there.
A colleague, Derek, stands waiting. I think to tell him that it was I who set off the alarm. But then he might think that I started the fire.
He has long curly hair and a round pudgy friendly face. “Do you have a hair band?” I ask.
“A what?”
“A hair band.”
He doesn’t know what I am talking about. He bends forward, tosses his hair over his head as he straightens up again.
“A ponytail band,” I try.
“Oh,” he understands now, and fishes in his green bomber jacket for a ponytail band in his jacket’s deep pockets.
“I used to have hair like yours, and I could even get it into a ponytail” I explain. “Just.”
And I realize I have only a tee shirt on. The shirt is a dark camouflage green but it is also thin and it will get cold, the longer the fire goes on. Fireman have only just arrived and our colleagues are gathering in a shed at the front of the garden. The shed has big open windows and banquettes so it will be comfortable but it will still be cold.
“Come on,” yells a new man, “We need to get something for our wait.”
He and one other person starts the climb back down an iron ladder, back into the warehouse.
I climb down with them and both sides are filled with fire and heavy smoke. I hesitate to go any further, plus there is a second set to climb down.
“Over here!” beckons one of the men, and he disappears down the next set of rungs while the other man goes into an adjacent smoke filled room on my level.
I peer into the room but the smoke is impenetrable. Embers flick red and black lace on a dark blue wall.
I turn around, and look down at the ladder that the first man took. The ladder is burnt orange with double wide rungs and I can see him already at the bottom.
But I cannot climb down for my fear. I have to turn around, the heat is suffocating, a middle eastern heat to my face, and I climb back up to the surface, where Derek is waiting.
I am standing with him when the men return, and finally, then do I relinquish; it is too late. One of them carries a thick lambs wool coat and the other squishes a big thick square black and white pillow to his chest.
“This will keep me warm’, he boasts as he struts past me.
Then I see my old friend Dave M.
“Here,” and he hands me a chocolate bar, square and wrapped in plastic. I look down at it and as I look down I notice that I am wearing Derek’s dark green bomber jacket.
Derek’s black wallet pokes out from the bulging right pocket. White papers poke out the wallet’s fold.
I will be warm now, I think; I feel a tear coming on, and begin to cry.
Photo by J Jakobson via Flickr
