SWAT fear

Each time I'm the first into the office and have to unlock the door and turn off the alarm, a wave of terror engulfs me. I have an irrational fear of SWAT teams. If for some reason you forget the alarm's code (or it was changed hypothetically and "they" omitted to inform you), after a few helpless seconds, punching in the code and wishing the "Armed" red light would go off, the alarm bells will start ringing somewhere in the building. To further complicate things if you arrive at work after hours (before 6:30am or on weekends), you need to inform the monitoring service, or else all sorts of warning lights go on at Moked Central. I imagine poor old little me, trying frantically to punch in an erroneous code, all the while SWAT teams are hut-hutting their way down ropes, rappelling down the sides of our building (a scene from the end of The Blues Brothers). And as I turn around, I'd face a sea of guns pointing at me. Of course, explaining that I have a legitimate reason to be at work is useless as they lead me away, hands cuffed with those wire ties they use on Palestinians, for a bit of "interrogation".

This morning (Saturday) I came here early to catch up on a few things. I have a busy week coming up. At the entrance to the building I noticed a still warm Vespa pulled up haphazardly to the door. Inside, a scrawny little guy, his huge scooter helmet still on his head, was shouting at the guard over the noise of his ridiculously loud two way radio. He explained in a high pitched shout, that an alarm had sounded in one of the lawyers offices upstairs and the monitoring service had sent him to investigate. I looked carefully at this tiny man, his "weapons belt" armed with two cell phones and a walkie-talkie, face pinched by his too-big helmet and dirty pants tucked into his socks. Not exactly the most intimidating presence. SWAT teams, rappelling down the sides of buildings, M16s at the ready. Reality is 80% at best, I tell you.