One of my least favorite moments in time (okay … absolutely most hated), is when the fire alarm goes off in the hotel. The piercing blast of the horns, rudely shaking me from whatever I’m doing, coincides with an intense and immediate sick feeling in my stomach. My thoughts are equal part, “I hope everyone and everything is okay” and, “I wonder how inconvenienced (and probably mad) all of our guests are going to be, thanks to this obnoxious intrusion.”
I just hate it.
(Incidentally, whenever I’m in some other establishment and the sirens start to blare, my first thought is enormous sympathy for that manager, that poor bastard, whoever he or she is.)
Almost as upsetting as the alarm, and only because the audible invasion is missing, is when I come around the corner on my way to work and see the fire truck, lights flashing, sitting in front of the Antlers. Same thoughts exactly … “Oh Damn! Please let everything be okay”, and “How mad are they all going to be?”
Today was one of those days.
Happily, when I pulled over and spoke to Sean, one of Vail’s finest, he uttered those two words I was dying to hear …”Burnt toast”. It happened to be in 317. Additionally, the fact that it happened at 9AM and not 2AM goes a LONG way toward alleviating the “upset guests” part of my concern. Hallelujah.
Next problem please.