Falling Down on Escalators

They say nothing bad ever happens to a writer. It’s all material.

So when I fell on an escalator at the world’s busiest airport last month, it took me only minutes to realize I could glean a blog post out of the embarrassing experience. But first, the humiliation.

Thankfully, the escalator was going down and I was nearing the bottom. A small rolling bag balanced on the step behind me, its handle in my right hand. My left hand held a half-full water bottle. A light blanket was draped over my left arm. My backpack hung squarely across my shoulders. Somehow I lost my balance, and when you lose your balance on an escalator there’s no retrieving it. Or perhaps there’s no retrieving it when you’re just days shy of your sixtieth birthday like I was.

In any case, down I went. In one of those surreal, slow-motion moments, I became aware of several voices all asking the same question: “Are you all right?”

“No,” I squeaked. “Can you help me up?”

I put out a hand and a kind man pulled me to my feet, not letting go until I stood on solid ground. Someone else retrieved my bag and blanket. My water bottle had dumped its contents across my hand.

I stood off to the side to assess the damages. One more person asked if I was okay. With a shaky voice, I replied “I will be. Thanks.”

I’d landed on one hip. That’s gonna hurt tomorrow, I thought. My right hand throbbed. No broken bones, just a bruised ego. It’s crazy how shaken I felt. I suppose it came from seeing how frighteningly fast something like that can happen and realizing how much worse it could have been. And how far I was from home.

I carried on, thankful I had lots of time to find my gate. Pretty soon the signs pointed up. I needed to take another escalator. My first instinct was to find an elevator or stairs. I walked past.

Then my mind returned to an event at age seventeen, visiting a ranch belonging to one of my high school teachers, Mr. DeVries.  After a pleasant trail ride, the horse I rode (I’ll call him “Lucifer” to protect the innocent) took off unexpectedly as soon as he came within sight of home. Apparently, his saddle had not been properly cinched. I found myself hanging off the side of Lucifer for hours, or at least a second. I remember the taste of dirt as I hit the ground. Mr. DeVries saw the whole show. He caught the horse and walked it back to me.

“You need to get back on,” he said.

I did, determined to show Lucifer who was boss and Mr. DeVries that I wasn’t a sissy—even if I really wanted to cry.

Lucifer took off again. I landed in the dirt again.

This time, Mr. DeVries made me climb back on the horse but walked the animal to his stall. I slunk into the house for a soothing shower and a little cry.

I don’t recall being on horseback since. It’s never been a priority. But it all floated to the surface that day at the Atlanta airport.

I turned around, walked back to the escalator, and stepped aboard.

Thanks, Mr. DeVries.