prologue.

three months ago....

"Hello? Hello? HEY!!" I yell as I hear voices and footsteps pass me by. I slam on the door with my open hand, but.. nothing. I sit down on the pale, dusty concrete steps 60 floors above the city and pull out my phone.

"Good Morning, welcome to the office of the American Consulate."

"Um, hi. This is going to sound really weird, but I'm meant to have a visa interview at 9am and I'm stuck in your fire escape.."

You see, this never would have happened if American tourist visas were valid for four, not three months. Or if The Bamboozle festival fell on the first weekend of June, in SUMMER, rather than May, like a good parking lot festival should be. Or you could take it another step further and say it never would have happened if I hadn't discovered Pete Wentz's blogs through an old online friend from Chicago, and fallen so deeply in love with this scene that I do anything to immerse myself in it at all times. Another step, and if Kevin Lyman had a change of heart and had become an accountant or a chef, and never started his festivals, I wouldn't have this deep-seated need to fulfill the rocker-kid's version of running away to join the circus: working the summer on the Vans Warped Tour.

You could blame me being stuck in the fire escape on many, many things: the song Holiday from Real by Jack's Mannequin, the film Almost Famous, the song 7 Weeks by Gym Class Heroes, Tim Towner from The Daily Chorus for writing such an inspiring blog about noobs who want to work Warped. Blame my friends Dave, Joe, Ali, and Alex, who all work in touring in the USA, for pelting me with advice and being so really, really ridiculously encouraging about me even making this mad attempt. (For those just tuning in, I'm not from the States, and I flew over in April without anything close to a 100% guarantee of a job.) You could blame the ANZ bank for granting me a loan, for some unfathomable reason. ('Who would give me a gun?' - That 70's Show, anyone?) But when it really comes down to it, the only reason I am stuck in the fire escape is because I am stupid and thought I knew better than the general universe. This is what happened.

I ran up the outer stairs and into the skyscraper lobby. It was the type to have separate elevators to different sections of the building, and I quickly jumped in the one marked 47 - 68, checking the time as I go. 8:40. My appointment at the American Consulate to apply for a year-long visa (regular tourist visa is 90 days) but I'd been told to arrive half an hour early for "screening". I pressed the button for floor 59 and it refused to light up. I tried it again, with the same result, but at this point the lift had taken off and was climbing fast. I got off at the next selectable floor - 61 - and came out in a lobby servicing a few different offices. I found a secretary and asked why the lift wouldn't stop at floor 59. She had no idea, but directed me back down to the ground floor to ask the main building reception. I ask if there are any fire stairs I can use as I just need to go one floor, and she once again directs me back down 60 floors to the lobby. Dude, my interview is in 14 minutes, at this point. I have to be screened. Warped Tour. I looked around for someone to give me advice that I would like a bit more, when I spotted a lovely green exit arrow sign. I follow it and find an emergency exit. Despite it proclaiming a $1000 fine for obstruction, I push it open and trot down the two flights to find the door for floor 59. Firmly locked from the outside. I start to panic a little - 'the fire stairs in Chatswood Westfield car park are never locked!' I try the doors on the floors above and below, with the same result. This is when I start freaking out pretty badly. Have you ever been physically trapped? It created a panic in me that definitely was not conscious. It was mindless terror and I was sweating into my navy blue polyester work blouse.

I pull out my phone and step up and down until I find a bar of signal - i am trapped in a fire escape 60 floors up. think i am going to die. I text to my roommate and a couple of friends. I try pounding and pounding on the door with no result, and that's when I call the office. They respond like they think I'm either a terrorist or the biggest moron alive. Apparently, I was meant to report to floor 10 for SECURITY screening, then get sent up to floor 59 in a special elevator. Duh. American government offices. They send some security guards to come get me - at this point I'm physically shaking and very white - and those dudes just pretty much laugh at me. By then, I had missed my appointment and also could barely stand upright, so I just left the building, after some lady told me I had white all over my ass - from the concrete dust in the fire escape.

The funny thing is, when I came back a few days later, the security guard remembered me, yet they still GAVE ME THE VISA. Clearly they figured that I wasn't trying to sneak in with a bomb, and that I was dumb enough not to do any damage to their country.

Well... we'll see about that. Heh.