A Succession of Not-So-Ordinary Days

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe once said, “A man can stand anything except a succession of ordinary days.” I wish to contest this assertion.

First, I stopped on the way home from the library to scour Target for a low-tech landline phone that doesn’t require electricity. I managed to locate one measly model in the phone aisle and started heading toward the register with it tucked beneath my arm, eyeing the latest DVD releases as I passed. I lingered at the bottled water aisle, considering, and then picked up three big jugs of Ice Mountain, just in case. Balancing the four items, I recommenced my trek, only to notice a sea of people, helmed by a pack of red-clad, walkie-talkie toting Target employees, marching right at me. “We’re going to the back of the store!” one of them hollered. “There’s a tornado warning! We can’t force you to stay, but we’d recommend it, and we’re not checking out!” (I liked the little caveat she inserted to protect the store against litigation for false imprisonment.) I dropped all my items and called Mom, just in case all the phone lines decided to spontaneously decombust and inhibit further contact. As I started following the herd, another announcement came over the speakers informing customers that they couldn’t roam free in the store - the two appropriate locations were (1) at the back of the store, the most structurally-sound portion of the building, or (2) the exit. Instead of following blindly I cut through an aisle to scoop up an armful of magazines and rushed over to the appointed area just as the electricity cut out. A general chorus of “oohs” akin to the cries of surprise that stink bombs prompt rose around me and little spotlights appeared at staggered intervals (the employees had rounded up flashlights prior to the cutout). After a moment or two the generator kicked in (greeted by a vocal tide of relief) only to cut out again, and repeat the pattern twice.

For about forty minutes we all milled about, listening to the angry bleating of heavy rain and sirens in the distance. It’s amazing how a little natural disaster renders all of us to scuttling ants yoked to a small black box pressed to our ears. One guy kept checking weather.com via his Blackberry to watch the radar. Eventually the manager came out to tell us the warning had lifted and we could scatter safely. The guy next to me smiled and speed-dialed his two sons to tell them they could exit the bathroom. I replaced the magazines, relocated my abandoned items and trudged out to contend with the billowing wind.

I rushed across the street and hurried in to check on Fuzz, who was fine but had been flying through the air, panic-stricken with claws extended, in my mind for the duration of my Target stay. The rain ceased about an hour later, but when I woke this morning it had reappeared, and we must have lost power because my coffee pot was flashing midnight. The best part is, we’re supposed to have a repeat performance on Thursday. Rah, rah, rah.

Then this morning in Civil Procedure around 9:55 we had just started a fresh case when BRAMMMM, the single loudest fire alarm I’ve ever endured started whirring through the air, accompanied by an obnoxious flashing strobe light. For a moment we all looked at each other like stupid idiots and then turned to the Professor, who sagged his shoulders in resigned irritation and threw two thumbs over his shoulders, signaling us to leave. I quickly unplugged my laptop and shoved it in my bag, slipping on my jacket before following the crowd outside. After about two minutes lulling miserably in the gloomy sprinkle of a foggy, windy Monday morning, a fire truck pulled up with sirens ablaze and scuttled into the building. After about five minutes they let us back in, where we all scooped up our belongings and split before the Professor could trap up for the last three minutes of class (and believe me, he would have).

So it seems, at least for a while, my succession of days won’t be quite so ordinary.