It is a beautiful spring day in Texas. The last of the cold fronts have passed, or so the weatherman promises, and on this day we will have 85 degrees of hot Texas sunshine. My bones offer up a silent "thank you" to the weather gods.

There are two major projects I must finish. I have been putting them off because finishing means I actually have to leave my desk for about half an hour to go paw through some files at the other end of the building. But this is the moment. I take the bull by the horns, pull it all together, and dig in with gusto.

At approximately 0937, just as I am getting into a groove on the first project, I hear the unmistakeable blast of the fire alarm system. BRRRNNT! BRRRNNT! BRRRNNT! BRRRNNT! Ye gods, a fire drill. Either real or imaginary. It doesn't matter, everything comes to a halt either way.

I stash the checks I'm writing in my safe. I close the door, giving the lock mechanism a spin. Grab my purse from the credenza and head for the fire exit. I've never participated in a drill from this location before so I'm not sure where to go. I make a beeline for the nearest "Exit" sign. Six flights of stairs later, I arrive at ground level and exit on the west side of the building.

We all move the required distance away from the building out into the parking lot to wait for the "all clear". We smokers light up, of course. It is like an official, legal, sanctioned, funded, albeit unscheduled, smoke break.

I notice that Sue is standing beside me. She's also a smoker but has failed to bring her ciggies. I offer her one of mine. We smoke and talk. It is a good chance for us to tag up. Sue is manning the switchboard while Patti is out on medical leave and she often has questions about this or that. Totally unfamiliar with our fire drill procedures, she simply followed the rush of bodies down the stairwell and has no idea what to expect. I brief her.

"My legs are really shaking," she says, "and I don't know why unless it was from coming down those six flights of stairs."

"Coming down is a breeze," I say, "It's going up that gets me."

"I know, that's what is so weird. I never expected walking *down* the stairs would affect me like this!"

Ever the optimist, the glass always half-full, I reassure her. "At least we don't have to walk back up."

The "all clear" sounds. We troop back inside, board the elevators, and disburse to our respective areas.

By now it is 1010. I have lost my former momentum. I retrieve the checks from the safe and pick up where I left off. One phase of the job is complete by the time my lunch break rolls around. I stash everything and rush off to take care of noontime errands. The Dream and I come screaming back into the parking lot with fifteen minutes to spare. I will use that fifteen minutes to get some lunch in the cafeteria and take it back to my desk.

Coming up the walkway I find myself face to face with Fairy Godmother #1.

"You really don't want to go in there," she says.

"You got that right," I say, "this weather gives me white-line fever."

"No, I mean you REALLY don't want to go in there."

I stop walking. "Say again?"

"There is no power in one half of the building. The elevators are inoperable and so is the air conditioning."

"Egad."

She looks at me, a wicked grin on her face. "At least I only live on the second floor," she says pointedly.

"Well, maybe they'll have 'em running again by the time I get my lunch."

She walks away, laughing hysterically.

Inside, there is a kind of orderly chaos. One half of the building is dark, although the cafeteria, which is on the first floor of the side without power, mysteriously still has lights for some reason. Intervention of the gods, I am sure. People have to eat, after all. The cafeteria is without A/C but they can see and they can cook. I grab a plate, throw some salad on it, mill around a while talking to this one and that one, then head for the lobby and the elevators.

Are they? Or aren't they?

They ain't. There is nothing for it but to climb the stairs.

Now I am one of those people who believe the stairs only go one way: down. So it is quite a shock to my system to realize that I must climb six flights of stairs to get home. But I strike out, lunch in hand.

On the way up I come to the conclusion that we really need a first-aid station on the 4th floor landing complete with nurse, masseuse, oxygen, cool towels, Gatorade and cookies. By floor 5 my legs are screaming. Arriving on 6 my tongue is hanging out like an old hound dog, my legs are so weak they feel as if they will buckle under me at any moment; I am breathing in great gasps and my heart is pounding like I just fell in love.

I stagger back to my desk, giving Janis the high sign that I am back on duty as I pass her station. She smiles knowingly at my distress. In retrospect, however, the trip up the stairs is not so bad. My heart calms down after a few minutes and my breathing returns to normal. I can speak, chew, and swallow within five minutes.

My desk happens to be on the side of the building with power. I notice my computer didn't even glitch when the power failed on the other side. Everything is humming away except the A/C. I eat and get back to my projects. Finish up the first one and start on the second. It is busy in my area. John, whose office is right next to me, is the Director of Facilities so this little power snafu falls squarely in his lap. Phones are ringing, electricians are rushing around, I am hoping for good news soon. There is none to be had.

By 1330 it is beginning to get very warm in my area. If I walk fast I break out in a sweat. I keep my head down and concentrate on the jobs at hand. I don't even want to think about what's going to happen if they don't get the elevators fixed in time for my smoke break. Don't even want to think about it.

At last comes the moment of reckoning, however. Two hours have elapsed since I returned and there is no fix in sight for the elevators. I must smoke or someone must die. I buzz Elvis.

"Can you take over for me for a minute?"

She laughs. "You're going for it, huh? You're gonna walk down six flights of stairs and back up again just to smoke."

"Yep, sure am. And I'm gonna smoke two while I'm down there."

"You must need a cigarette REALLY bad!"

"That ain't the half of it, child. Not only do I need a cigarette really bad, but I have a theory about those stairs and the only way to prove it is to go back down 'em again."

"Theory? What theory?"

"That they won't be as hard to climb the second time."

She laughs again. "You are a true nut case."

"I'm serious," I say. "I think the initial shock to my body has passed. However, if I don't show up in thirty minutes, send a rescue team to look for me. I'll probably be unconscious somewhere between four and six."

Off I go to the smoke pit, where I smoke my two ciggies and get everybody else's input on my idea about the 4th floor first-aid station. The consensus is that the nurse should be CPR-trained and it wouldn't hurt to have a few cots. The Wild Man suggests a St. Bernard with a cask of liquor strapped around his neck to roam up and down the stairwells searching for felled employees.

On the way back up the stairs I run into Bess on the second floor landing. I've been needing to talk to her about the checks I'm writing, anyway, so we stop for a minute to take care of business. She is gasping for her breath after only one flight. Hmmm. I ain't in as bad shape as I thought.

On four I come face to face with Julie. I need to see her about something, too. We stop and work out the details of that op. A steady stream of people are moving up and down the stairwell. All of them gasping for breath as they come up, hanging on to the handrails, pulling themselves along. No, I ain't in such bad shape at all. The remaining two flights are relatively easy and when I arrive at six this time, my body is only mildly traumatized.

Back at my station, things are hopping. The electricians are no closer to finding the problem than before. Data Systems is calling to tell us that if we can't restore power within thirty minutes they will have to shut down all the computer systems. Soon it becomes definite that full power will not be restored to the building in time to salvage this work day, so we start implementing building shutdown procedures. In addition, we have one wheelchair-bound employee on the sixth floor, Secret Agent 807, who must be evacuated. The only question remaining is, "Who are the four lucky people who will carry him down the stairs?"

It is hot as hell by this time. Sweat rolls down the side of my face, tiny rivulets of perspiration tracing the line of my neck downward as they travel. I come out of my jacket. It doesn't help. I work as fast as I can to finish my second project.

The word goes out: building shuts down at 1500 hours. I finish just in the nick o'time. My last official duty is to supervise the evacuation of 807.

Four big, strong guys take hold of the wheelchair. They grunt, they groan, they strain, easing him down the six flights one step at a time. 807, of course, keeps a running monologue going the entire way down. About half the time, I am doubled over with laughter. So are the poor guys carrying him. Every now and then they have to stop just to get all the laughter out of their systems. Their shirts are drenched in perspiration, as are their faces, their arms, their legs.

Finally we reach our objective. Agent 807 rolls out of the stairwell on the first floor and heads for the front door. The four rocket scientists lean up against the cool marble wall of the lobby, breathing heavily, wiping the sweat from their brows.

"Ding!", goes a familiar sound. We look around.

The elevators are up and running.