You dial those three, simple little numbers... 9... 1... 1.

The phone rings once. Twice. Picks up.

Immediately, you're placed on hold. Isn't 911 supposed to be for emergencies? What's with the hold music?

Zamfir blares in the background, and the soothing sound of pan flute eventually lulls you into a false sense of complacency. Your mind collapses into a fog of sleepy central American folk music. The world slows down around you, time slowly almost to standstill. You start reaching for the mickey of gin you keep in your file cabinet for just this sort of occasion.

You gently, delicately extract the brushed silver flask from your drawer, reaching up to unscrew the lid with two fingers. Mesmerized by the narcoleptic hold music, you start to tilt the mickey to your mouth. Then you remember where you are, and glance around surreptitiously to make sure that none of your nosy co-workers — or management — are watching. Screw the security cameras, they're ten years old, anyhow.

All clear.

You relax, and take a swig of gin. It burns, slightly, as you swish it around your palate. You swallow, feeling refreshed, if a little lightheaded.

The hold music stops.

Damn.

A woman's voice answers. She'd probably sound sultry to you, if you didn't already know that this wasn't a 900 number. Also, if you weren't drinking at the office. But that's another issue altogether.

"Hello, this is 911." The operator sounds harried. "What seems to be the problem?"

You quickly try and recall what it was you were calling about.

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