Don’t really know what this says about me. That I went to L.A. to get a National Society of Newspaper Columnists Award. I learned all kinds of wonderful things and met some terrific people. I shook hands with Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist Leonard Pitts’ and “Dear Abby.” I had dinner at the Will Rogers Ranch and got to go to The Getty Center. I stayed at the house of a friend in Hollywood who works on “The Bachelor” and marveled at his stack of Emmy Award nomination DVDs that all said, “For your consideration.”
And yet, through it all, my biggest takeaway and most captivating moment? Standing in a hotel elevator pondering something quintessentially L.A.-ian: What does the earthquake button do?
Because there was one in the elevator. Right next to the fireman button. And the call for help button. (Which apparently just won’t do if a tremor strikes.) It just said, “Earthquake,” and left the rest to my imagination.
I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind. And up until that point, I hadn’t been worried about earthquakes. I hadn’t been worried about anything! But that little button changed it all.
What does it do? Does it counteract the shaking? Does it alert the earthquake authorities? Does it CAUSE an earthquake?
Then I got neurotic: What would I do if I was in an earthquake? Not just in the elevator. But all kinds of situations. If one struck while I was using the restroom. That would be embarrassing. And is it appropriate to wash your hands before exiting the lavatory? Or taking a shower. Would the world understand if I ran outside naked screaming, “Stop the rocking! Stop the rocking!”?
And do you run outside, or do you get in the fetal position under your desk? Or is that a tornado? I had no idea. I’m from Florida where you don’t have things like this. “Yeah, but you have hurricanes,” someone in the elevator pointed out as we discussed the button (and whether we should press it.)
“Sure, but a hurricane you can see coming,” I said. “You have time to sell your house and move to Arkansas.”
But an earthquake could hit at any moment. Like when you’re standing in line at Starbucks. What do you do? Finish paying? Put cream and sugar in your coffee? Will you even need to stir?
I have never been an earthquake — never worried about one — but now a little button in an elevator had me turning it over in my mind.
Don’t know what it says about me, that I can’t get that little button out of my mind. And still can’t figure out what in the world it would do. (And why we didn’t press it!)
Brian Thompson’s column won second place for humor in the National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ 2016 Contest Column for newspapers with circulation under 50,000.