To a Crisp

         London has a long history of fires. The city has been burned more times than a middle school girl with detachable headgear. For me, this is particularly troubling because I’ve always said that when I go, it’ll be a fire that does me in. Sending me to London is like letting a gazelle walk through a field of lions. I didn’t stand a chance, especially with my pasty skin and visual impairment. I knew it was only a matter of time before the flames of London devoured me, leaving only a crispy pair of glasses behind. So far my morbid theory has been put to the test a few more times than I’m comfortable with, starting with my visit to the Tate Modern.

     I wouldn’t want to be caught dead in the Tate Modern, but I almost was. The building itself is as ugly as it is tall. The Tate is a brown, windowless industrial building and it looks as though it would be better suited as an orphan-run Indonesian shoe factory rather than an acclaimed modern art museum. However, I had some time to kill, and the Tate looked like it was familiar with killing.

      As I found myself wandering through the different exhibits, I was happy I had stopped in. The art wasn’t anything to write home about, but I particularly liked the Diane Arbus photography room and planned on stopping in the gift shop to pick up a book with her photographs. Mainly, I was happy because I knew a few hours at the Tate were all I needed. The completeist in me was satisfied. Finally, I could visit a place and leave without thinking about how I would have to get back there at some point to soak in all the things I had missed the first time around. The Tate Modern would officially be crossed off my to do list.

      After I had seen some riveting “art” such as the giant pile of sunflower seeds and an assortment of scatological structures, I found myself in the “States of Flux” room on the fifth floor. This was the last room I had wanted to see before making my way down to the second floor café to grab some lunch and then topping off my visit by checking out the museum gift shop. I was standing next to some large structure spewing out pieces of paper filled with CIA intelligence written in different languages when I heard a loud sound. It was some type of alarm. At first I though the alarm was part of the exhibit, after all, I was in the “States of Flux” room. I figured this was just some crazy artist’s idea of groundbreaking artwork. I was more annoyed than impressed. Obviously, this artist hadn’t seen the giant pile of sunflower seeds. Now there’s some great “art.”

      The alarm got louder and I noticed the lights started flashing. Once a museum worker came in and told us to evacuate, I knew I was done for. There was no reason to take this lightly, especially with London’s highly flammable history. I knew I had to get out of the museum as quickly as possible. I ignored the museum workers who ushered me to the fire stairs. Instead, I made my way for the regular staircase.

       The alarm provided an all too fitting soundtrack as I barreled down the stairs. Four more floors to go, I knew my chances of survival were slim. Is this how it ends? In an ugly building that looks like an orphan run shoe factory?

        As I shoved elderly people and children out of my way on the cramped staircase, I envisioned my crisp body lying on the front of the museum’s lawn as police struggle to identify my body.

    “The only thing we were able to recover off of this one was the glasses.”

     Then my body would be thrown in a dumpster in order for the police to avoid the burden of another unsolved case. My classmates would ask questions about my whereabouts for a few minutes before becoming distracted by the ice cream cart adjacent to the museum. My dad got a boat this summer, and I’m convinced he hasn’t noticed that I’m even gone. He probably thinks I’ve been up in my room or at a friend’s house for the past three weeks.

      But as I reached the third floor, I realized the worst part of this whole thing. I hadn’t seen the café or the gift shop. The OCD part of me had to do both of these things before I inevitably became engulfed in flames. I had heard good things about the café, and I couldn’t pass it up. What type of food did they have? I would never know, I had to at least go by and glance at a menu, even it meant mild smoke inhalation. And how could I possibly cross the Tate off my to do list without buying a souvenir at the overpriced gift shop? Perhaps I could hop over the flames in order to see if the shop carried any Diane Arbus books.

       My flame retardant plan disintegrated on the second floor when I was halted by a museum worker. I was told, rather sternly, that I needed to use the fire stairs. Maybe the fire stairs would have a café menu posted on the wall. At least then I could see what I was missing out on. No such luck. I had decided to visit the Tate the same day that it would burn to the ground.

     As I made my way safely outside of the museum, it didn’t seem as though there was any real danger. Really? I had to leave before seeing the gift shop and there wasn’t even a real fire? All of this was for nothing? I would’ve felt a lot better if the whole museum burned to a crisp, except for the café and gift shop, because I still haven’t seen them yet.

        About a week later I was leaving to go out to dinner when the fire alarm in the apartment building went off. I was on the first floor landing and I saw the control paneling listing all the flats. Flat 15 had a red light next to it, and above that the word “FIRE” was lit up in red. This was it; this is how it would end. The Tate Modern was just a fluke, but now the apartment building would burn for sure. As I climbed the stairs back up to my apartment I could smell something burning. It was go time. I rushed into my room and stuffed my laptop and passport into my backpack. I considered what items needed to be saved. As I was leaving the apartment, I was told that someone’s phone charger had caught on fire. I still left the building, since the alarm was deafening.

       There was a small group outside, and as we gathered around, the gentleman who had started the fire began laughing with his “bros.”

       “Dude, I like started a fire,” he laughed.

       Oh, thanks for apologizing for the massive inconvenience. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself you inconsiderate tool.

      I can’t say that I was surprised. The universe is teasing me with these false alarms, but eventually the real flames will catch up to me. So far, I’ve been careful to avoid anything that could possibly cause a fire. I’ve used my chargers as minimally as possible, I’ve avoided carrying containers of gasoline, and I’ve suppressed the temptation to use a waffle maker. But there’s no denying that by the end of this trip, there will be nothing left of me except for my crispy glasses. I wonder if I should just go ahead and cancel my return flight home. The eternal flames of London loom over me and make me sweat in fear. Good thing I brought extra deodorant.