The Rotunda

Issue date: 11/18/09 Section: Features

Media Credit: Lexi Barker

If you've been conscious within the last 48 hours, you'll know that there was a fire at 11:38 Monday night in the Northeast apartment of the Landings. How do I know this? Because at 11:38 on Monday night, I was sitting on my bed doing homework. In my apartment. In the Northeast building of the Landings. Yes, I was one of the approximately 100 residents evacuated from the burning building to partake in an impromptu pajama party in the parking lot behind the Southeast building.

Before my radical upgrade to a Landings apartment, I lived in South Ruffner, where the fire alarm would go off every time the weather got miserable. So I have become a bit desensitized to the sound of fire alarms. To me, a fire alarm was a minor annoyance. I would get shoes, a jacket, and my keys, and mentally prepare myself for five minutes of staring at the sky while the RAs try to figure out what mythical creature set it off this time.

So it's no surprise that on Monday night at 11:38, I simply kicked on a pair of shoes, threw on a coat, and grabbed my keys. As I walked down the hall, I first realized something was wrong when I saw an RA running like Nicolas Cage down the hallway, knocking furiously on doors. But, I figured, he was simply enthusiastic about running a good fire drill. So I ignored it.

When I got to the stairwell, I noticed that there were an unusual number of police officers directing student traffic as residents were shuttled down the stairs. But, again, it was possible that they were just trying to make this run as smoothly as possible. Maybe there was going to be a cop party when the drill was over. Again, I ignored it and followed the other students out of the building.

It wasn't until I was standing in the parking lot, wearing shorts and a pair of sneakers with no socks, that I realized that this wasn't a drill. The howling sirens and enormous fire trucks tipped me off, eventually. As one of the building's RAs began reading off a list of names to ensure that everybody had been safely evacuated, it dawned on me that it was almost midnight on a school night, I had nothing but the clothes on my back, and I couldn't go back to my apartment.

I realized that I was a hobo.

All right, I wasn't a hobo, but a loveable scamp at least. My sweatshirt was two sizes too big, drooping comically over my bright green Bermuda shorts. All I needed was a jaunty cap and a show tune, and I'd have been all set. But as it stood, I was just one of the many residents standing outside in the dark, waiting for answers while firemen and police officers did battle with the blaze - which at the time was attributed to a linty dryer.

Continued...

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