In the late 1990s, I worked as a production assistant for a company that did an outdoor Shakespeare show every summer. The year I worked there, the show was “Julius Caesar”.

At one point during the show, while Caesar was giving a speech, several actors onstage held lit lanterns on long poles — none of those fake battery-operated lights but real live fire in the lanterns. Best practices dictated that we have a stagehand standing just offstage with a fire extinguisher the entire time those lanterns were lit.

One night, while this scene was occurring and Caesar was giving his speech, one of the lanterns broke and hit the stage, still lit. The stagehand immediately stepped onstage and shot the lantern with a blast from his fire extinguisher to put out the flames.

There was a moment of stunned silence from everyone: the stagehand, the actors, and the audience. And then Caesar, gravely and sincerely, turned to the stagehand and exclaimed:

Caesar: “Thank you, citizen!”

And he promptly turned back to the audience and returned to his speech without missing another beat. 

It was one of the most masterful recoveries from an onstage problem I’ve ever seen.

I work in a small restaurant in South Dakota. The place is profitable — barely — but the building is old and in poor repair.

One day, the fire extinguisher falls out of its designated slot in the wall overnight. We find it on the floor in the morning. The manager grumbles and puts it back in place, only for it to immediately fall out again.

Inspection shows that the bits that are supposed to hold the extinguisher in place are bent and broken. Grumbling some more, the manager fetches some duct tape and tapes it back into place.

I attempt to point out that’s probably a bad idea and almost certainly is not compliant with local safety regulations, but the manager says it’s just temporary until he can get someone out to fix it.

As you can probably predict, no one ever comes out to fix it. Eventually, the tape wears out, and the extinguisher falls again. The manager replaces the tape.

Over the course of about five years, this happens three times. Finally, during a business rush, a waiter accidentally bumps the extinguisher, knocking it down, and it explodes.

White powder goes flying everywhere. It fills up the kitchen. It fills up the dining area. We’re all coughing and choking on the powder. One of the cooks steadies himself against the grill, burning the skin on his hand badly. I’m not entirely sure how he is able to hold on to the grill for such a long period of time while in so much pain, but he basically burns completely through the skin on the palm of his hand.

We have to shut down for the day to clean up, which becomes three days, which becomes a week. Then, the owners announce that they are closing for good.

All because of one idiot decision about a fire extinguisher.

My brother has been stubborn as a mule since the day he was born, often to his own detriment. My mother has learned that sometimes the only way to steer him away from something is to let him suffer the consequences.

My brother is quite young when a neighbor invites our family to spend the afternoon at their backyard pool. My brother can’t swim yet, so my mom has him on her hip as she stands in the shallow end.

Brother: “Mom? I wanna swim.”

Mom: “You don’t know how to swim yet.”

Brother: “Yes, I do!”

Mom: “You’ve had one lesson.”

Brother: “I can swim! I’ll show you!”

They continue to argue until my mom agrees to let him try to swim. He sinks like a rock. The second he hits the bottom, my mom bends down and picks him up.

Mom: “You can’t swim, honey.”

Brother: “Yes, I can!”

Once again, they argue until she agrees. This time, she lets him go and watches closely. Once again, he sinks like a rock. She waits a few seconds, watching his eyes get wider and wider under the water as he sits on the bottom.

Then, she bends back down and picks him up again. He takes a deep breath and blinks the pool water from his eyes.

Brother: “I can swim.”

Mom: “No, you can’t.”

Brother: “Let me try one more time!”

She does. He sinks. She watches his eyes get wider and wider. She scoops him up again.

Mom: “You can’t swim.”

Brother: “I can’t swim.”

My mother still tells this story whenever we go swimming with family friends — while my brother goes off and swims with the rest of us, without sinking to the bottom.

The fire alarm has gone off in the mall where our store is located. We usher the few customers in our store outside so we can all head outside.

Me: “Excuse me, sir, we have to evacuate due to the fire alarm.”

Customer: “But I’m still shopping.”

Me: “You can continue shopping if it’s a false alarm and we can reopen, but we all need to leave right now.”

Customer: “I need to get a present for my wife! It’s our anniversary tonight!”

Me: “Sir, I am sure your wife would rather have you alive than have a gift.”

Customer: “…You haven’t met my wife.”

I am a fire marshal at my place of work. Essentially, it means I am responsible for ensuring that my assigned area is clear of people when the fire alarm sounds, and I am authorised to use a fire extinguisher and run the Health-And-Safety-mandated weekly test. Due to the others on site having more demanding roles, I usually run the weekly test.

To do the test, I have to call the service company to inform them I want a test state for our building (so the fire service is not dispatched), set the alarm board to avoid cutting off the gas, and announce on the PA system that we are in a fire alarm test. As there are many deaf and hearing-impaired staff on site, I also have to leave at least two minutes from the announcement until the alarm so that they can be updated.

On the morning of our story, I have been solidly at my desk for an hour and forty-five minutes, I have not announced anything, nor have I informed my colleagues that I am doing the test — something I make sure to do, so no one thinks I am shirking my regular tasks.

The alarm sounds out. It is loud, wailing, and accompanied by flashing lights — deaf colleagues, after all. Right away, I stand and tell my manager that this cannot be a test. She is a fire marshal also, as is my team lead. Two other staff in the office have already left for the safety point. The final one is still on the phone.

Me: “We need to leave the office now.”

[Colleague] continues to talk on the phone.

Me: “This is a real alarm. We have to go now.”

Manager: “[Colleague], end the call.”

[Colleague] carries on with a long “goodbye” to the caller and then stops to note who she was talking to and what record it was about.

Me: “This is a real alarm. There could be a fire in the building.”

Manager: “Out of the office. Now.”

[Colleague] stops to fetch a coat and scarf. It is early spring, but not cold enough to need that much.

Me: “[Colleague]! We have to go!!”

Colleague: “Oh, it isn’t a test? I thought you had to do those!”

I usher her out of the office.

Me: “I didn’t tell you I was doing a test, I didn’t announce it, and all six other people in this section evacuated. It is not a test.”

As it turned out, a large space heater placed on a desk — I work with some very… different… people — had triggered a smoke detector.

My colleague had a very stern talking-to from management and needed to sign an improvement notice over the incident. When a fire marshal tells you to get going, you get going!