This

May be

the longest

moving stairway

in the whole damn w

orld. Unrolled, I bet i

t would stretch from the

White House to Reagan 

Airport and back again. I onc

e timed it out of boredom, a

nd it took exactly 2 minutes 15 s

econds to get from top to botto

m. How about that, huh? Long enou

gh for a pop song. Since my fall, I just

have to stand here, like an idiot, letting t

he escalator carry me down. Can’t run lik

e the rest of these showoffs. I lose a lot of ti

me this way, watch a lot of train doors close

on my face. Blow to a man’s pride, you know, see

ing all these young bucks prancing their way past m

e. It’s the feeling of failure, of being left behind. But no

body gives two figs about a melted-face old geezer like

me. They sure didn’t that afternoon six months past, when

I was trying to catch the 4:15 train, sailing down these steps like

it was nothing, not even a hand on the railing (as if some pretty

little thing might notice my youthful glide), when I tripped and fell,

gashing my hand all up—glad I was that I always stash my tie in my

briefcase until I get to the office, because if I’d been wearing it, that thi

ng would’ve caught in the gears and strangled me. Not one person stop

ped to help, or even asked was I was OK. They dodged around me, even ov

er me, as if I was a pile of dog shit. I managed to slide myself forward to sta

nd. I broke ribs playing ball back in the day—this didn’t hurt anything like that. 

I had to use my tie—nice one, blue paisley, gift from my wife—to bandage my

hand up, and before that I had to wipe the blood on the lining of my good overcoat.

Worst part was I missed the train and had to stand there, a bleeding old moron, for

10 minutes. I’m no complainer, though. I kept my dignity, and rode home on the very n

ext train that came along, not on a gurney. Didn’t leave one drop of my blood on the se

at. Drove myself home from the park-and-ride, to boot. Of course my wife got one look and

took me to the E.R. You damn fool, she said—she, the one person in the world you’d expect t

o show compassion! Thirty-three stiches in my hand—one stitch for every year of marriage. But I

didn’t point it out. Stupid thing to notice. So anyway, here I am again, like an idiot, hearing the sc

reech of the train on the tracks and knowing I’ll be too late to catch it, when this woman pushes by m

e. A large woman who moves like she’s weightless, breasts bouncing as she flies, with perfect grace, h

er bright red hair streaming behind her (my wife’s hair was that color once). And so I pursue her, gatheri

ng speed. I know I’ll catch that train. Sit near her, talk to her, even. But then (oh, shit) I think . . . . I’m falli

ng . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . falling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . again . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .