Ring the Alarm!

Today a few friends and I were "working" in the little study room around the corner of my dorm's hall, when I decided a bag of popcorn would be the perfect addition to our little group. So I round the corner, go to my room, put a bag in the microwave, and set the timer to four and a half minutes. That seems long for popcorn, but my nine-watt cardboard microwave was assembled with Scotch tape circa 1957, so it's not quite as fast as the technologically advanced microwaves of the past lifetime. I didn't want to sit alone in my room, waiting for each kernel to individually burst into blossom while all my friends were watching hilarious Family Guy clips, so I figured it wouldn't hurt if I left and came back when I thought the popcorn was done--even if I was a few minutes late; what harm is there in cold popcorn?

A few minutes after returning to the study room , I decided the popcorn had more than enough time to finish, so I return to my room. I twist the doorknob, push on the door, and for a split second there was silence...then suddenly the piercing wail of an alarm stabs my eardrums, penetrating into the depths of my cerebellum! No light shone in the room except the small illuminated window of my Precambrian microwave displaying a black bag revolving in a cloud of smoke. I slap on the lightswitch to see the same gray smoke filling every crevice of my room, expanding slowly--too calmly for the panic at hand. In swift motions I open the microwave, almost ripping off its cardstock door, and both windows: giant panes of glass consuming the majority of my wall, yet prison-like restraints prevent them from opening beyond a two-inch crack. Then I grab a handful of ashes from the open microwave and rush out of the room.

Alarm still wailing, everyone in my hall stands on their threshold holding their door open looking left and right in confusion, all wondering whether or not to heed the shrieking warning and follow the fire exits to wait outside in their underwear, enduring the unseasonably cold night till the fire marshal decides the halls are safe to enter. Walking as fast as I can, breaking into small bursts of running, breathless from panic, I'm panting to everyone "It's okay! No fire, just burnt popcorn, relax!" Upon seeing the black fistful of smoke, their confused expressions quickly turn to smirks and relived chuckles, and as they retreat into their rooms, their hesitantly-closing doors allow to be heard the sound of their chuckles increasing to outright laughter.

I continued with my panicked run-walk, all the way to the end of the hall, flying down the stairs, managing to stub every one of my toes separately on each individual stair, and collide into the door blocking the bottom of the staircase with enough force to spring the air-pressure-slowed slab of metal against the opposite wall fast enough for it to bounce back and fracture my left elbow. I continued down the next hall, still motivated by the murderous screams of the alarm to go even faster than the light-speed at which I was already projecting myself. I finally arrived at the lobby where a dozen or so residents of my dorm were hesitantly approaching the exit doors in their sweats and slippers, dreading waiting in the arctic air for a safety approval. I slammed into the front desk, wedging myself between two inquiring students to explain the lack of danger to the dorm's authorities.

The obese deskman made a show of deliberately trudging to the alarm control box, pausing to sway his head around like a concussed owl and ensure he had the undivided attention of every student on campus, then slowly--ever so slowly--fingered each one of the switches, pausing between each one of course, before the alarm finally silenced. Its echo continued to resonate painfully in my ears, slowly transforming into Beyonce's "Ring the Alarm!"

What was once a lump of blackened, flaking popcorn bag was now just a gray stain on my hand and an incriminating trail of charcoal powder, leading all the way through the lobby, down the hall, up the stairs, through the other hall, and turning sharply under the door into my room. The residents in the lobby, whose numbers had multiplied during the fat man's long journey to the control box, all eyed me scornfully. They waited around awkwardly for some official release or announcement, till the manatee behind the desk slowly lifted his blubbery head and waited for all the cellulite in his neck to stop dancing. After that unbearably long period of time, he bellowed to the whole city that everything was in order, the misfit who burned his popcorn has confessed his retardation, and everyone could go back to their rooms and stop disturbing his McDonald's feast. Their scornful looks changed to sneers and sighs of relief. So, with my head down, I followed the masses back up the stairs hearing echoes of whispered profanities at the "dumbass" who can't even microwave popcorn.

I think it would indeed be worthwhile for me to take up the sport of manatee hunting.