The Fire Alarm

#3

    I hate writing about myself; it reminds me of what I am.  Not of who I am but
what I am.  I’m handicapped, disabled- a quadriplegic.  I spend every day in a
motorized wheelchair.  When I write or talk about myself it’s like looking into a
mirror.  I reflect about the miserable things that are a part of me.
   There was the time I took my youngest son to the movies.  It was just him and I
for a weekday matinée.  We were dropped downtown at the newly opened Pacific
Place Mall and let loose- I, with my 8 years of wheelchair experience, and my 7
year old who thinks his father is pretty much like any other.  It was the first time
we had ventured out being just the two of us.  It was one of those father/son
bonding experiences.
   We were early and the theater was a ghost town.  Music played on the sound
system but the previews hadn’t yet started.  I don’t recall what the feature was
that we were to see but if you ask my son he’ll remember.  He remembers
everything that happened that day.
   A mother and her son walked in and climbed the steps to get to the perfect
seats that are middle row- halfway up.  We sat in the designated accessible
section.  Soon thereafter the lights dimmed and a preview began.
   Shortly into the trailer an alarm sounded.  The reel stopped and all the lights
came on.  We waited for a moment thinking that it would stop at any second,
guessing that it was a miscue or a false alert.  Eventually a recorded message
told us that the building was being evacuated and all occupants needed to locate
the nearest exit.  We did as instructed.
   The entrance to the theaters is located on the third floor.  When we got to the
elevators my son pressed the down button but there wasn’t any response.  All
elevators are automatically called to the ground floor during alarm.  The able
bodied people had left via the escalators.  Those were off too but they turn into
normal staircases. All of them were presumably safe.  The landing area we were
at started closing in on us.  We felt as though we were inside a sealed vault with
no direction to escape.
   My son looked to me for guidance only I was as perplexed as he was.  I didn’t
believe it to be an emergency so I explained to him my reasoning.  “Do you smell
smoke?” I asked him.  “I don’t.”
   He tilted his head, raised his nose and took several deep whiffs.  “No, I don’t
smell anything,” he said.
   I had hoped that the lack of smell would ease the life-grip he was holding on
my armrest.  The longer we waited the tighter he clamped down.  I held back
telling him that this is what the disabled people working in the Twin Towers on
9/11 must have felt when all their fellow co-workers escaped through the
stairwells.  All they could do was helplessly watch the others evacuate while they
were left behind.  I didn’t tell him because that had frightened the hell out of me
ever since I read those stories and telling him would push him over the edge.
   A worker from the theater came to us.  He said he saw us and contacted his
manager.  His manager was trying to reach the facility technicians to figure out
procedure.  The building and businesses were so new that training for disasters
hadn’t been addressed.  We were virtually in a 21st century Titanic.
   The manager materialized and explained the alarm was triggered by a
construction crew working on a restaurant on the ground floor.  There wasn’t any
emergency.  He apologized for the inconvenience but assured us that he wasn’t
to blame for not knowing protocol.  It was a facilities issue.  
   In a matter of seconds the alarm stopped.  The sound etched in our ears
slowly dissipated.  The escalators began their motion and within minutes the able
bodied patrons reappeared.  We were able to see the movie.  Living the dream
continued- temporarily interrupted with a minor inconvenience.
   This incident remained unsettling to us.  Two days later I contacted the
administrative office at the mall and was surprised to hear that they were aware
of the situation.  They were in the process of scheduling a clinic with all of the
stores managers to train them what to do in the event of emergencies.  
   My son is now 15.  He has never forgotten that day and neither have I.  Every
time we’re waiting for an elevator I see that little boy grabbing my armrest and not
letting go.  Every elevator has become another mirror.


Marty Reilly
Spinal cord injury..... 7/23/1994