Earthquake Preparedness Class

"When I was a schoolboy," the instructor began, "we were taught to crawl under our desks in the event of a nuclear attack. Of course, with all the lead in the paint back in those days, hiding under our desks was probably redundant." Brad Stillman waited a beat for his joke to land but it didn't. It never had. And yet, he somehow felt compelled to open the Earthquake Preparedness class with it again. It was his fourteenth time leading the class. It was the fourteenth time he had told his school desk/A-Bomb/lead paint joke. 0 for 14. Not even a chuckle. He felt like Slim Pickens, riding that nuke like a bronco-busting cowboy at the end of Dr. Strangelove. Bombed at the box office.

"But," Brad continued, "while crawling under your desk won't protect you from a nuclear blast, it might save your life in an earthquake." He stood in front of the blackboard in front of the adult education class where he had written in large capital letters "EARTHQUAKE PREPAREDNESS" and below that his name, in smaller caps. "Welcome to Earthquake Preparedness. My name is Brad Stillman, I'm a geologist by trade, with a Masters from the Colorado School of Mines. I work here at City of Angels Community College and I'll be leading today's class. Just to level set, can anyone in the class give me an example of how you would prepare for an earthquake?"

It was a Saturday morning class and Brad was a little hungover. Oh, vodka! You have betrayed me again! But he knew in his heart of hearts there was nobody to blame but himself. When you're alone, that tends to happen a lot. The two martini rule exists for a reason! Some rules are NOT made to be broken! Brad thought 64 was the new 44 and while he had spent most of his life a solitary man, he still believed there was a chance he would one day find his one true love. He had kept himself in shape, though his running schedule had more recently become a walking schedule with the occasional weekend tennis match with other members of the faculty. He especially enjoyed playing with Chris McLuhan, who taught chemical engineering. Chris was a much, much better player than Brad but Chris would make sure to keep Brad in the game before crushing a cross-court winner. Generally speaking, Brad enjoyed his life, but Friday night had found Brad feeling less than optimistic about a happily ever after. He had plans for dinner with the visiting professor in the Life Sciences department, an age appropriate, not unattractive woman with short, curly hair named Laura, but she had canceled at the last minute. No problem. Some other time, then… 

Why had she said no? Brad wondered. He'd been told on more than a few occasions by friends and family that he bore a "striking resemblance" to Brad Pitt; he didn't see it and yet, if he was being honest it was the reason he had traded in his glasses for contacts. Despite this (or completely unrelated to it), there he was, all alone, at home, on a Friday night. Perhaps a 64-year old who kind of sort of looks like he might've been Brad Pitt once upon a time wasn't quite the catch he thought he'd be. 

Loneliness can make it far too easy to talk yourself into that third (or fourth) martini (hard to be sure after the third one). Brad Pitt should remake The Thin Man, Brad thought. But who would be his Myrna Loy? 

Who's my Myrna Loy?

His eyes burned as he searched the classroom for someone willing to speak. The uncomfortable silence seemed to be taking on a life of its own. The classroom is a savage place. It was almost impossible to shake off the embarrassing wounds of childhood given the memories sparked by this oh too familiar setting. Tough room, Brad thought. 

This classroom was set up as a lecture hall with tables and chairs facing the front of the room where Brad stood. It had a capacity of 40 but was less than half full with what looked like 7 couples and 3 singles, based on how they were seated. Brad wondered what Dead Poets Society would've been like if Robin Williams' character had been a vampire. Teacher by day, homicidal, bloodsucking, undead evil by night. Finally, he spotted a half raised hand in the back row.

"Yes?"

"Buy a sturdy desk?" a young man in the back asked. This drew a collective chuckle from the classroom.

Brad smiled uncomfortably. "Yes. And as they say, that's funny because it's true. I recommend a dense wood such as mahogany for a desk if you have a home office, or for a dining room table. Conversely, the wrong household furnishings, unsecured or improperly secured, can become deadly weapons in an earthquake. Other examples of earthquake preparedness?"

Another hand shot up.

"Yes?"

"Move to North Dakota," said a middle-aged man in a blue shirt with obviously chemically induced ebony black hair. He was sitting next to a woman who looked to be about the same age as the middle-aged man was working so hard to be. Brad wondered if she was the man's wife or daughter. The woman giggled. Wife, Brad decided. A daughter would roll her eyes at something like that. Come to think of it, a daughter would not have come with her dad to something like this in the first place. This is what comes from watching too many rom-coms, Brad thought. 

“I was looking for something a little less, um, you do know how cold it gets in North Dakota, don’t you? It’s right next to Canada, which is kind of famous for being cold,” Brad said. 

“Florida!” another voice called out, followed by another round of muffled giggles.

This is the problem with Los Angeles, Brad thought. Everyone’s in the business. He sighed. “Where I’m sure they have Hurricane Preparedness classes,” he said. “How about we focus on what we can do in the here and now, okay?”

“But what if you’ve been thinking of relocating, anyway?” the advocate for Florida relocation asked. This drew a mix of muted laughter and rolling eyeballs. Brad felt like the only audience member at an open mic night in a comedy club with 17 stand up comedians on stage all at once. A geologist walks into a bar…

"Okay," Brad said, "Let's get started." He took a deep breath. "Injuries and property damage are an unavoidable reality with earthquakes. Show of hands, how many of you have purchased an earthquake insurance policy?"

Only a few hands were raised. "I knew it," a man with gray hair in a yellow polo shirt said to the woman with gray hair and an almost matching yellow blouse. "This is just like those timeshare deals. They suck you in with a free meal but it isn't free because you have to sit through their sales pitch in order to get dessert." He turned to Brad. "Well. I, for one, won't be buying your insurance policy and by the way, that was absolutely the worst continental breakfast I have ever had."

"Those bagels were pretty stale," the advocate for Florida relocation said.

"All you had was grape jelly," the middle-aged man in the blue shirt said. "I hate grape jelly."

"I just can't trust cream cheese from a squeeze packet," a new voice from the back row offered. "And that guy who's moving to Florida is right. Those bagels needed cream cheese."

"Those cranberry mini-muffins were pretty good, though," the woman in the almost matching yellow blouse said.

Brad hadn't had anything more than the overcooked, industrial strength coffee to soothe his pounding head. He felt like he was on the edge of losing control of the classroom but he had to agree with them. One look at the cheese danish and he had nearly thrown up. The discussion revisiting the continental breakfast was not helping and neither had the coffee. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Let me assure you that I'm not here to sell you an insurance policy. I assume you all have homeowner's insurance. I'm only recommending that if you don't have specific coverage for earthquakes that you contact your insurance agent and discuss that with them. As for the stale bagels and the lack of jelly diversity, there will be an evaluation form you'll get at the end of today's class where you can make your feelings known about that."

This drew a nodding consensus from the class.

"Okay," Brad said. "How many of you have an earthquake safety kit?" This time, no one raised their hand. 

"Okay," Brad said. He considered the box of booklets that sat on the table next to him at the front of the classroom. He typically would hand out the booklets at the end of class. He had found that handing them out at the beginning of class inevitably led to nobody paying any attention to what he said as they leafed through the printed materials. Is that so bad? His hangover was screaming at him to forego that best practice. He had to do something to stop the shrieking noise behind his eyes. He reached into the box and pulled out a stack of the plastic-covered booklets with a cover page that exclaimed in large, boldface italics print, "EARTHQUAKE!" and set them down in front of the middle-aged man in a blue shirt and the much younger woman sitting next to him. "Please take one and pass them along." He waited a moment as the clumsy distribution of the booklets progressed. "If you turn to page 11 in the booklet, you will find the information you need to put together an earthquake safety kit. Everybody finding that?" Nods and mumbled responses in the affirmative followed.

"Okay," Brad said. "This information is really important as even the smallest of quakes can have a devastating impact on the city's infrastructure. Water, especially, is something we all tend to take for granted - Yes?" The advocate for Florida relocation had raised his hand.

"So, is everything you're going to cover in class today in this booklet?" he asked.

Thank you! Brad thought. His prayer had been answered. "Yes," he answered. The advocate for Florida relocation nodded, then stood and started for the door. The middle-aged man in a blue shirt turned to the much younger woman sitting next to him and shrugged. He turned to Brad, smiled, and said thanks as he and the much younger woman stood and followed the advocate for Florida relocation to the door. It worked! Brad thought.

Brad suddenly felt like he was on skates. Everyone froze as the floor settled. There was a murmur of nervous laughter. "Was that part of the class?" the middle-aged man in the blues shirt asked. "Because that would be kind of awesome."

The flood of adrenalin had lifted the vodka fog from his brain. "No," Brad answered.

"That figures," the middle-aged man in the blue shirt said. "Everything about this class has been the opposite of awesome." Turning to his much younger companion, he added, "Let's go."

The next tremor turned Brad's queasy stomach over and nearly caused him to lose his balance. He threw out his arms to steady himself, feeling like a surfer riding a twenty foot wave straight down. Someone shouted out the obvious. "Earthquake!" The coffee urn on the side table tipped over onto the floor and the remains of the wholly unsatisfactory continental breakfast slid back and forth and then off the edge of the table. The lights went out. A panel fell out of the hung ceiling. 

"Everyone, please! Under the tables! Now!" Brad shouted as the room swayed. "Let's go! Let's go! Let's go!" As everyone found a place under a table, Brad crawled under the table at the front of the classroom. There was a low, rumbling noise that sounded like thunder rolling down a mountainside and the building itself staggered like a man tripping on his way up a staircase. 

And then it was quiet.

"Is it over?" a voice asked.

"Stay where you are!" Brad answered. The emergency lights flashed on, greeted by a startled, collective gasp, followed by a round of nervous laughter. After a minute or two of silence, Brad said, "Is anyone hurt? Everyone okay?"

After hearing the relieved voices confirm that everyone was good, Brad crawled out from under the table and said, "Okay. I want everyone to walk calmly and carefully and slowly out of the building now. All right? No running! Make sure of where you're stepping. Okay? Everyone got that?"

The advocate for Florida relocation apparently did not get that as he sprinted out of the classroom and into the hallway. He had barely disappeared from view when there was a loud crash and a stream of shouted expletives, followed by a plaintive diagnosis. "I think I broke an ankle!"

Brad sighed. "Please. Everyone. Walk. Calmly and carefully. Okay?"

Brad made his way out into the hallway and ushered the rest of the class down the hallway toward the door marked EXIT, then turned his attention to where the advocate for Florida relocation was sprawled on the floor in obvious, snot-bubbling pain. He was lying on his side, his left foot still pinned between two floor panels that had been loosened by the quake, separated, then collapsed together like an upside down bear trap on the man's ankle.

"This is your fault," the man sob-yelled at Brad. "I'm going to sue you for everything you've got!"

Brad wondered what everything he had was worth. His car was twelve years old and had cost more than it was worth to pass inspection last year. A half-full closet of clothing with an unfortunate preference for plaids, a TV that was considered "big screen" in 2015, a chair, a couch, a bed, enough money in the bank to clear his rent and a week's worth of groceries. A rug. An 8x11 area rug that really pulls the room together, Brad thought. Wait! Am I the Dude? Brad wondered. His books. His DVDs. That was it. The remains of a life less lived. He smiled. "An earthquake is an act of God," he said. "You can't sue me for an earthquake."

"Then I'll sue God!" the man squeaked. 

Brad took out his phone. Signal! He dialed 9-1-1. "Are you sure that's a good idea? Suing God?" A recorded message informed him of the obvious. All lines busy, please wait, please stay on the line. 

The advocate for Florida relocation grimaced. "Well, I'm pretty sure all lawyers go to hell, so, yeah, God's legal team can't be that good. I think I could win that case. Help me up!" the advocate for Florida relocation demanded through clenched teeth.

"Don't move, okay?" Brad said.

"Aren't you going to help me?" the advocate for Florida relocation pleaded.

Brad smiled. "I'm a geologist, not a doctor." The advocate for Florida relocation did not catch his witty, inverted Star Trek reference. 9-1-1 picked up. "Hello, yes, I've got a man with what appears to be a sprained or broken ankle," Brad began.

"It's broken!" the advocate for Florida relocation shouted.

"Uh huh," Brad continued. "No, his foot is wedged between two floor panels that must've separated in the quake. I'm not sure I can move him without making things worse. All right. All right. Are you sure? Okay. Thanks."

Brad hung up and surveyed their surroundings.

"What are you looking for?" the advocate for Florida relocation asked.

"A stick for you to bite on while I amputate your foot," Brad said.

"What? You can't cut off my foot! 9-1-1 did NOT tell you to cut off my foot!" the advocate for Florida said. "Did they?"

"No," Brad said. "I was just trying to lighten the mood."

"Well, don't quit your day job."

"9-1-1 said it would be at least an hour and likely much longer before emergency services can get here. Apparently, they're are dealing with worse things than a sprained ankle -"

"It's broken!"

"Worse things than a broken ankle because, you know, earthquake. So, they suggested I find something to use as a lever to pry the floor panels apart so we can get you out of here," Brad said. "Hang on. There's a janitor's closet down the hall. I'll be right back."

Brad returned after a few minutes with a broom, two mops, and a roll of duct tape. "I found some aspirin in the janitor's closet," he said, holding out the bottle to the advocate for Florida relocation.

"You brought me aspirin for a broken ankle?" the man demanded.

"Well, if you don't want it," Brad began, putting the bottle back in his pocket.

"No! No!" the advocate for Florida relocation said, holding out his hand for the aspirin. As Brad handed him the bottle he asked, "Did you bring water?"

"Couldn't find any," Brad said. "Sorry."

"Well, how am I supposed to take these?" the advocate for Florida relocation asked as he shook the bottle at Brad, who was busy taping the three handles of the broom and two mops together. 

"Read the bottle," Brad said. "They're chewable."

"Oh!" the man said. "Okay then." and with that he tipped the bottle up and poured at least a dozen aspirin into his mouth. Then, he gurgled something that sounded like "Thanks" around the mass of partially chewed aspirin in his mouth.

With the broom and mop handles taped together, Brad was able to lever the panels apart and with a howl of pain and relief, the advocate for Florida relocation pulled his left foot out of its earthquake-created floor panel bear trap and rolled onto his side.

"Okay," Brad said, casting his DIY lever aside. "Let's get you up on your one good foot and we'll hop our way on out of here, all right? Here. Give me your left arm."

With some effort and a few more declarations of pain through gritted teeth, Brad managed to get the advocate for Florida relocation up, and with the man's left arm around his shoulders, and Brad's right arm around the man's waist, they stepped gingerly down the hallway toward the exit.

As they neared the door, Brad said, "This feels oddly familiar. You ever see Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?"

"Who?" the advocate for Florida relocation asked, the stress of pain still obvious in his voice.

"It's not so much a who as a what, though, to be fair, they are the title characters," Brad said. "It's a movie. You've never seen it? Paul Newman? Robert Redford?"

"What are you talking about?" the advocate for Florida relocation asked, clearly in no mood to discuss classic American cinema. 

"Never mind," Brad said. "I'm sure this movie will end differently for us. At least, I hope it does." He pushed open the door and they stepped out into the sunshine, where the pistoleros were armed only with phones and the only shots taken were with their cameras.