"UGA's Performing Arts Center needs victims," says my radio, "for disaster training."

That's odd. I'm used to campus drills preparing for terrorist attacks and bomb threats, but what kind of disaster, exactly, could happen at the Performing Arts Center? They decide to perform Wagner's entire Ring Cycle in one sitting? I'd imagine the PAC is one of the safer places one could be, but then I remember the moviegoers in Colorado, and I give the center a call.

"No, no," says Erin Tatum, the center's general manager. "We feel—we hope—that we'll never have to deal with that here. Though if we did, our training would probably be useful. But this exercise is to prepare for natural disasters, like fires or tornados."

Has she ever had to deal with an actual disaster? "In 2010, we had a tornado warning. We had 400 people in the theater listening to an orchestra from Russia. We got the patrons safely backstage, but the Russians, they didn't understand what was going on. They all went outside and smoked cigarettes. This is the kind of thing we're trying to avoid."

Tatum will never convince Russians to stop smoking cigarettes, but I'm heartened by her efforts to keep their theater patrons safe. So is Pete Golden, the emergency operations coordinator for UGA and the head of the Community Emergency Response Team (CERT).

"When a group on campus takes the initiative to do something like this, we try to help," Pete says.

Indeed, a handful of the 15 or so victims are members of CERT, a volunteer organization that trains citizens to respond to, among other things, weather emergencies and missing person alerts. There are also students who've been promised extra credit for helping out. And still others are spouses of people who write nosy columns for the local paper and are keeping them company even though they have a cold and would rather be on the couch watching season three of "Breaking Bad." For a group of people who are about to be horribly mangled by flying debris, we are a cheerful lot, chatting and gawking at the elaborate ceiling. But then, things get serious. The doors of the theater bang open, and in walk the Classic City Roller Girls.

The three of them stride down the center isle in their black t-shirts, wearing expressions that say they've come to kick the ass of any tornado that dares interrupt the music of Aaron Copeland. I wonder if Tatum is perhaps worried that a future performance will devolve into a spontaneous outbreak of roller derby, but, alas, these Roller Girls are here simply because they're good citizens.

Their leader, known as "Sparkling Whine" at the rink, works at UGA's Veterinary Medicine College and is also a member of CERT. "We're here to help," she says, pointing at "Savoy Scuffle" (Kathleen Pendelton, UGA president's office) and "TrogDora the Jaminator" (Stephanie Ayers, EITS). "We do a lot for the community," Ms. Whine says. "For example, a portion of our next meet's ticket sales are going to Nuçi's Space."

For the thousandth time, I remember why I love this town. No matter where you go, there's the potential to meet people who are involved and passionate. From the little old lady volunteer ushers to the staff at the PAC who drill them even though they don't have to, to the CERT members, to the Roller Girls, get a group of random Athenians together, and I guarantee you'll find something worth thinking about.

The exercise begins, and Tatum welcomes us all with a chipper "Thank you all so much for being victims!" The tornado drill goes smoothly—the person in the wheelchair and the man who wants to take pictures of the pretty clouds are herded gently but firmly to the dressing rooms with the rest of us. But when the fire drill begins, things go awry.

A large male college student falls to the floor as soon as the alarm sounds. "My legs are broken!" he screams, writhing in mock pain. "Both of them?" asks an usher. "Seriously?" The ushers gather around the flailing student.

Risking fiery death, I further confound Tatum's attempt to evacuate us by snapping photos. "How did the fire alarm break both his legs?" I wonder to an elderly usher standing nearby. She rolls her eyes. It's almost eight o'clock; we've been here for a long time. "I guess he'll just have to burn to death," she says sweetly.

A medical volunteer announces they've called for an ambulance, which is exactly what she's supposed to do. Relieved, we convene to debrief. Everyone agrees that the exercise was a success. The ushers know the protocol and have proved that, behind their glasses and gray hair, there's competence and skill. The Roller Girls, CERT volunteers and students have gotten what they came for. And Tatum and her co-workers are happy that the disaster drill was not a disaster.

As for me, I'm looking for my next opportunity to contribute to public safety. If anybody out there needs a victim, give me a call.