During a Crisis

When we are in a crisis, our true personalities emerge. Suddenly, what is most important to us instantly becomes clear. While it’s interesting to take brief peeks at our true selves, no one honestly wants to be caught in those intense, panic-filled situations. Which explains why I’m nervous about my upcoming trip to San Francisco for the RWA national conference.

I’ve already been tested under fire, not once, but twice, yet I have this distinct feeling, another crisis may be upon me soon. I’m not looking forward to it, either. Seriously, I’ve been there, done that, heard the sirens and smelled the smoke.

And heck, I already know what I deemed most important: My bra.

That’s right . . . my bra. Not my purse, my credit cards, or my new shoes. Nope, my bra.

Some of you know about my good friend/writing partner on my non-fiction projects, Faye Hughes. Well, if you ask her, she’ll swear these crises are my fault. Don’t believe her. You see, Faye sort of has an allergy to … exercise. I’m a power-walker, I try to get in at least three miles a day. Sure, I may give Faye a hard time about getting those muscles moving, but I’m not guilty.

Faye and I went to the PASIC conference in New York a little over a year ago. We had a nice hotel room on the sixtieth floor. It was just around five o’clock, we’d just finished a day of conferencing, and were changing clothes and trying to decide about dinner. Then we hear it, a man’s voice. Since we’re in a hotel room, and Faye swore she hadn’t hidden a man under her bed or in the bathroom, suddenly hearing a man talking was a bit of a shock, especially when you consider I’m standing there half out of my bra. It wasn’t just the voice and my near nakedness, it was what he was saying, which was: “This is an emergency warning. Please stay calm, stay in your rooms until we further investigate the emergency.”

Now, I don’t know about you, when anyone tells me to stay calm, I just about always figure there’s a reason to panic. The first thing I did was make a joke, and refasten my bra. Then I hear it. Fire trucks. Lots and lots of fire trucks. I rush to the window and sure as heck, pulling into the parking below are at least four of those suckers, sirens cranking. My heart tries to play catch up with my pulse and believe me, it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that there probably a couple dozen good-looking firemen attached to those trucks.

Faye, looking a bit alarmed, goes and sits down on the edge of the bed. I look at her as if she’s lost her marbles. “What are you doing?”

“I’m doing what they said to do. Staying calm.” She can be such a smart-aleck at times.

I shake my head. “Faye we can’t stay in here.”

“Why not?”

Because I’m sure the elevators aren’t working right now. Which means we’re going to have to take the stairs.”

“Stairs? Oh heck no! They said for us to stay in our rooms.”

I try to stay calm, but I’m failing big time. “That’s what they told the people in the twin towers on 9-11.”

Faye rushes to the window and pulls back the curtain. “On 9-11, there was a plane sticking out of the building. Do you see a plane?”

Right then another fire truck arrives.

So down the stairs we go. There are others doing the same thing that confirms I’m not an idiot. But of course that doesn’t stop Faye from shooting me the evil eye. After we make it about ten flights (amazingly I’m not in as good of shape as I thought I was) we run into a maid going up the stairs. Yup, up! Faye, in all her glory, asks, “Are we on fire?” And she wasn’t’ talking about the muscles in our legs either. Then she looks at me and I know if that woman says no, I’m probably gonna get my butt kicked.

The maid starts laughing. “Oh, no, honey.”

“But the fire trucks and the man’s voice,” I say.

“Oh, they do this all the time. If this place was on fire, I’d be pushing your butts out of the way to get down first.”

The man’s voice comes back on. “Everything is fine.” The laughing maid leaves me with a pissed off friend.

You wouldn’t believe the crap I had to listen to from Faye (for trying to save her life, I might add.) Then she actually accused me of tripping the alarm to motivate her to get some exercise.

Now, fast forward, to our next conference, in a hotel in Dallas--ninth floor. It’s one a.m. and Faye, I, and Teri Thackston are asleep. And darn if that man doesn’t start talking again. Only this time he’s not telling us to stay in our rooms. Basically, he saying, “Get your butts out of bed, find the emergency exit, and get out. Fast.”

The first thing I say is, “I didn’t do it.” And I start laughing. I always go for humor when panicked, but let me assure you, Faye doesn’t have that problem.

She’s a cussing up a storm, as she attempts to find her phone. She is NOT leaving without her phone. I mention her lap top and she stares at me like I’m nuts. “It’s belongs to my work. Let it burn!”

It takes me forever to convince a sleeping Teri that we have to leave. (But the smell of smoke helps.) I’m thinking she’ll want to change out of her Christmas PJs, (I might have teasingly suggested it, (hey, it is July, snowmen aren’t in fashion) but nope she goes in a frenzy searching for her pearls. She’s NOT leaving without her pearls.

Me, while I’m normally a little more modest, I’m cracking jokes and stripping off my PJs, in front of God and everyone, looking for my . . . bra.

Hey, “the girls” aren’t as perky as they used to be, as Teri and Faye can attest to, and if I’m going to be in Dallas with nothing but what’s on my back, that back is gonna include a bra.

We leave the room, Faye, still a cussing, clinging to her phone, Teri in her snowman PJs and pearls, me, with my hair uncombed, still giggling, but my girls are supported. So we start down the nine flights of stairs, with a couple of hundred other people in all states of undress. Some are putting on their makeup as they go, and I swear another lady had her toothbrush in her hand. But Faye really started cussing when we arrived at the hotel lobby/bar and saw everyone calmly sitting around in their business suits having late night cocktails eyeing us strangely. Apparently only two floors had to evacuate due to an electrical fire.

Anyway, Faye and I will be heading off to the RWA conference in San Francisco soon. It won’t happen again, right? Just in case, I’m asking for a room on the lowest floor available and I’m sleeping in my bra.

So what about you? If you were in a hotel room, and you had to evacuate, what item would you grab? What would you take the time to do? How do you react during a crisis?