The Fire Fighter Wears Tweed

A few weeks ago I was on the phone yapping away on a personal call when I see my boss, also on the phone, looking directly at me saying, "Helen's GREAT! She is organized, she's competent, she's smart, she's beautiful, a talented actress and writer, witty beyond belief, and a snazzy dresser!"

(OK. So it ended at "smart," but that's not a terrible place to end....)

I got off the phone, feeling guilty at the thought of me yapping away about God knows what while he was praising my work ethic. He kept going, "I would definitely trust Helen. There's no one else I'd trust more on this floor. Great! No problem, I'm happy to do it."

Wow-wee! Job opportunity? Raise already? What? What!? What?!

"You're the new Deputy Fire Marshall for the floor! Isn't that great! YOU!" He realized the ridiculousness of giving the smallest girl on the floor this title and gave off the biggest grin.

This week is Fire Safety Week. This morning I attended a 'Fire Safety Meeting.' Being the "deputy" seemed like I just had to stand by while the real Fire Marshall did the work. Some of the glory, none of the work. Sounds lovely.

But then I got some bad news. I am being groomed to be a hero! I don’t want to be a hero! I want to LIVE, man! The real Fire Marshall, another assistant on my floor is in charge of pulling the lever and getting out first. Me? I have to make a phone call from the stairwell and check that everyone has been evacuated. They recommend against headcounts because there could be extra people on the floor and instead recommend that we look around and see who is left on the floor. Meaning-the 'Deputy' is the last one off the floor!!

No. Just no.

I sat there as the played fire alarms, over and over again. “Got it! NOW I know when to run!”

I stopped paying attention in defiance. We were sitting in a glass room above the trading floor and I decided to play a game of Where’s Waldo, seeing if I could locate one of Ex-IBs friends who works there. That unaccomplished, I began calculating the ratio of men to women, pushing myself back on my chair and relaxing when I heard, "Then we go to Club Monaco, right?"

I sat up straight. "We're going shopping for sophisticated clothing!?! Deputy Fire Marshall I am!"

I looked at the women whose suggestion it was. She had a highlighter out and was taking notes. She was not looking for a tailored grey cardigan, she was no bullshit. The representative from the fire department, nodded, “Yes. That’s when we go to Club Monaco.”

I stopped paying attention, imagining all the guys and gals from my floor shopping for nicely made city wear as our building burnt down across the street.

Tomorrow we have a fire drill. I don’t know exactly what I’m supposed to do, due to my lack of attention paying, but I do know I need a new black button down and that I have a credit card.