My eyes burn as I stare at the blue-lit computer screen on my desk. My headphones thump in my ears, spitting out Bach, or Beethoven or something. The playlist is generic classical music I put on to force myself to focus. My eyes drift up from the quarterly expense report spreadsheet document to the clock at the top right of my screen. It reads 1:48AM. I have at least one more hour of work ahead of me before I can pack it in for the night. Of course, at this point it might make more sense to just curl up and nap under my desk, since I need to be back at the office in five hours and twelve minutes, but I will deal with that issue once I finish what needs to be done tonight.
This is what life has been like since I moved to New York City and took a job as an investment banker. Tonight, like most nights, I am alone in the office well after midnight, head pounding from the intense glow of the screen and the tedious counting and recounting of tiny typed numbers on endless, indistinguishable spreadsheets. I begin to wonder if I made the right choice by going to business school, majoring in finance, and moving to the big city like everyone told me I should. Sure, the salary is more than I ever could have dreamed of making if I had decided against this path, and my apartment is nicer than I ever thought I would be able to afford, but I never really get to enjoy these things. I come home at night and collapse into bed without even turning on a light or looking around. What good is a breathtaking view of Central Park if you never get to stop and look at it? My mind is clearly beginning to wander, a cardinal sin during these late night sessions, since it does nothing more than prolong the time I spend at the office. I need to snap back into it and focus on these expense reports.
I lean forward and drop my face into my hands, kneading my eyes, hoping to rub the tired out of them. When I open my eyes again, my vision is cloudy. I blink repeatedly, hoping the clouds will clear, but they remain. I lean back and reach for the ceiling, feeling the tension in my muscles from sitting all day. There was a time when I never sat down at all, let alone spent an entire day in a chair. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, as I continue to stretch my hands toward the ceiling. I feel an uncharacteristic warmth in my fingertips, and a sharp twinge of smoke tickles my nostrils. Snapping my eyes open and jumping to my feet, I tear the earbuds from my ears. The sound of the fire alarm drowns my thoughts. Scrambling to regain coherent thought, I piece together the fact that the office is filling with smoke, and there is a fire somewhere in the building. Somewhere close.
I rush to the nearest window, and experience the sinking feeling in my gut that always accompanies a view from this height. I place my trembling hands upon the glass and lean forward. Forty stories below me, the streets are flooding with what appear to be matchbox fire trucks. I inhale deeply as my stomach begins to twist into knots. The air I draw into my lungs is predominantly smoke, and I compulsively hack as the breath tickles my lungs. A single bead of sweat outlines the contour of my face and drops from my chin to the window. My gaze shifts from the droplet of water to the lower portion of the building. Flames are leaping through the windows of the three floors below me with reckless abandon. It will only be a matter of time until the fire travels up one more flight of stairs and swallows my office, whether I am in it or not.
Slowly, I have another realization. I am alone on the top floor, and most likely the entire building. The security guards at ground level must have fled the building as soon as the alarm sounded, and likely would not have expected anyone else to be in the building. No one is going to come for me. I know there is no time to think, so I take off in pursuit of the stairwell. Choking through the haze, I skid to a halt at the stairwell door, fling it open, and the fire rushes through the doorway. With adrenaline as my guiding force, I am able to duck to the side and avoid the blow from the flames. I bypass the elevator and continue my sprint toward a maintenance ladder I know leads to the roof. At this point I am gasping for air. Loosening my tie and unbuttoning my oxford shirt, I pull my old Denali National Park cotton undershirt over my nose and mouth to keep the smoke from choking me. Each breath comes with increasing difficulty. I continue to sputter and wheeze as the oxygen is swallowed up by the greedy flames. Sweat is pouring from my brow, and the hallway seems to be rocking side to side as I continue onward toward the roof. Just as the maintenance ladder comes into sight, I feel the blood rush from my head, and I crumble to the ground.
. . .
I wake up in a sleeping bag with the sun shining through the flaps of my tent, warming my face. I pull my faded t-shirt over my shoulders and climb through the zippered door of the tent. Taking a big, clean, full breath of fresh mountain air, I shade the sun from my eyes and absorb my surroundings. Overwhelming aromas of pine and aspen are only outdone by the breathtaking views of the sun climbing above the summit of the nearby mountain peaks across the valley from my campsite.
Inhaling again, my nostrils fill with the fresh air combined with the smoldering ashes from last night’s fire. I poke at the ashes with a stick, and embers begin to glow. Blowing on the embers, I am able to coax them to leap into roaring flames, lapping up the fresh wood I neatly place atop them. From the backpack in my tent I produce the necessary gear to make a pot of coffee. A collapsible wire tray turns the fire into a stovetop, and the metal coffee maker I picked up in Ireland requires a few ounces of water from my thermos, a few scoops of coffee from a ziploc bag, and then it is placed atop the fire until the coffee is ready. As it heats up, I dig through my backpack in search of my favorite speckled red Acadia National Park metal mug. I pull the mug out of a side compartment just in time to hear the gurgling of coffee filling the top chamber of the coffee maker. I scoop it off the fire and file my mug to the brim, grinning as the steam floats off the top of the liquid and dances through the cool mountain air.
About fifty feet down the trail from the campsite I spotted a small clearing. A tree had fallen from the perimeter, and lay bathing in the sun through the middle of the clearing. I bring my cup of coffee and a copy of John Muir’s Wilderness Essays down to the clearing and sit in the grass, propped up against the log. I lean back and feel the warmth of the sun on my face as I take the first sip of coffee. The initial metallic bite of the cup is replaced by the jolt of dark roast coffee, and a shudder runs down my body. I place the mug down, open the book up and begin to read. I simply cannot imagine feeling more at peace than I do in this moment.
My reading is interrupted by a rumble in the sky, and a wet drop thwacks onto the middle of the page of the book. I tilt my head back once again, just in time to see a dark cloud roll in, and a sheet of rain drop down from the sky.
. . .
Slumped against the wall of the hallway, my eyelids flutter, fighting the smoke and water. Through searing pain, I take stock of my surroundings. The room is filled with smoke, and water is spraying from the sprinklers overhead. With a chest-clearing cough, I regain my composure and start back on my quest.
Army-crawling along the floor, I make it to the maintenance ladder and climb the first wrung. The roaring fire licks at the soles of my Cole Haan loafers. At this point, I am holding my breath, as each inhale causes a crippling fit of wheezing and hacking. The fire roars at my heels as I unlatch the trap-door leading to the roof. I fling it open, tear through the opening and slam it shut behind me. I lay panting on the roof of the building, swallowing up heaping gasps of fresh air, uncorrupted by smoke. Tears uncontrollably stream from my smarting eyes as I roll to my side and begin to think about the next step. I feel a smoldering twinge and look down to see the tip of my tie carrying a residual flaming souvenir from inside the building. I tear it from my throat--as I so often wanted to do while sitting at my computer listlessly entering numbers into spreadsheets--and hurl it to the side.
The flame jumps from the tie and begins swallowing chunks of the roof, growing at an unprecedented rate. I scramble to my feet, and frantically back away from the fire, searching for any possible escape from the rooftop. Suddenly, a deafening crack echoes below me, and the building begins to shake under my feet. My stomach drops as the building lurches to the side, and the sounds of smashing windows and crumbling concrete echo through the sky. The building is going down, and I am at the top.
An eerie calm envelopes me as I walk slowly, carefully to the edge of the building. Peering over the embankment along the sides of the rooftop, I look back down upon the swarm of matchbox fire trucks. In the distance, a helicopter is hurtling toward the building. It will never make it in time. I back away from the wall and lay flat on my back, gently closing my eyes. I feel the heat from the fire warming my face. I inhale. Pine and aspen.