Free Outside the Dog Museum by Jonathan Carroll

shocked, frozen silence taking moments to realize what’s happened, the world outside finally began to howl its disbelief and pain. First the sound of what must have been an air-raid siren calling its all clear. Then the smaller,
insect-shrill cries of moving sirens: ambulances, fire trucks, police cars. Even six stories up in the hotel, their wavering wails came from every direction.
    On the fourth floor Big Top led us into a room with its door ajar. Inside, everything was in perfect order except the doors to the balcony, which were both open. Curtains flapped wildly in and out of the room.
    The dog went to these doors and stood by them, tail wagging. Why there? Why had he stopped?
    The Sultan went over and hesitantly walked out onto the balcony.
    “There is a tree here! We can climb down on it. It is very big!”
    “Why? Why not use the stairs?”
    Djebeli pointed at Big Top. “The verz. He knows something we don’t. Come.”
    Outside, the branches of our lifesaver tree waved cheerfully. A moment later they were gone with a crash. The Sultan jumped back, shouting in Arabic. The dog started barking.
    “Fuck it—I think we just lost our way out of here.” Fanny turned and started for the door.
    Big Top, who was normally sweet on Fanny Neville, ran from the balcony and, blocking the door, started snarling and snapping at her. He looked vicious, prehistoric.
    “Big, get out of here!”
    “A helicopter!”
    The whack-whack of a rotor came up louder and louder, drowning out even the dog. What more could happen?
    Djebeli ran to the balcony, saw whatever it was, and yelled, “It’s Khaled! We’re saved!”
    You forget titles and who you’re suffering with in the middle of an earthquake. Luckily in our case it was a Sultan—and Sultans have money and power and loving subjects. They also have devoted minions who go looking for them in helicopters when they’re in trouble.
    Khaled swooped down the side of the Westwood Muse Hotel in a gold-and-black chopper that looked like a high-tech bug from heaven. I later learned the Sultan himself was a professional helicopter pilot and always had one on call wherever he went. The first thing I saw of this one was the garish seal of Saru on its weaving tail.
    The cockpit dipped into view and a pilot with sunglasses and a million-dollar smile waved gayly at us.
    “How come he’s so happy?”
    The Sultan waved back. “He is always happy when there’s trouble. Stand back—he is going to shoot.”
    I looked out the door and the guy was aiming some kind of bizarre-looking rifle at us. Over the “wopping” of the blades there was a bang and something shot through the balcony doors: a beautiful thick rope. His Majesty, the Sultan of Saru, grabbed it and insisted Fanny and I go out first. I didn’t argue.
    When I was fifteen and about as full of shit as one could be, my father shipped me off to an Outward Bound survival school for a few weeks one summer to humble me a little. We climbed mountains, fought forest fires, once even rescued a woman who’d fallen into a glacial crevasse. It was a tough, interesting experience that gave me some important perspective. But what’s remained most has been the banal realization you can never really say you know another until you’ve seen them under fire. One fat guy there was everyone’s friend in base camp, but poisoned down into a cowardly, selfish, dangerous SOB when we were hanging off the side of an obsidian cliff or walking through a forest of burning treetops.
    The converse of that is how remarkably the Sultan behaved the day of the earthquake. On the ground again, he sent Khaled off in the helicopter to help wherever he could. And after finding a pair of shoes, the ruler of one and a half million people joined diggers outside the hotel trying to save those trapped beneath rubble. We did this too, of course, but he not only jumped right in, he jumped-right-in: When
a hole of any size was opened, he was the first to go in burrowing