Monday, February 16, 2004
Closed Up
I walked down the steps to lunch today. That preprogramming from college, in which all my friends took the stairs up to the library's third floor -- even if our legs were trashed from a workout -- plugged in, and I found myself inhaling the slightly faded chemical scent of the dark orange hallway.
The only way to reach the stairs is to go past the huge service elevator that no one uses. It's just for furniture, I suppose. But preceding the service elevator are two narrow hallways. Hallways so narrow that the designer of the huge service elevator must have blushed upon completion. I suppose someone could move a thousand small parts through the hallways and into the elevator where they could be assembled into a monstrosity large enough to warrant such an impressive elevator . . . . Of course upon reaching its destination, this object would have to be taken apart to maneuver through the halls. As I tried explaining to a co-worker last week: "Logic isn't malleable. It's sense that's not at all common."
So I'm getting off-point. Here I was taking the stairs, all alone, with anything to do and any way I wanted to do it for 30 minutes, hurrying down stairs facing windows that had been carefully boarded up with thick, vinyl coverings -- as if whatever happened in these empty, forgotten stairs must be kept private. At the bottom, a second doorway I'd never noticed before stands, bricked up, with only fresh grout giving it away. It gave me an excuse to kneel down, tie shoes that were tight, and brush at my pants that were clinging with static, as if I were praying to this forgotten wall, the smell of the dust -- giving thanks for the way my muscles relaxed and my headache subsided.
The only way to reach the stairs is to go past the huge service elevator that no one uses. It's just for furniture, I suppose. But preceding the service elevator are two narrow hallways. Hallways so narrow that the designer of the huge service elevator must have blushed upon completion. I suppose someone could move a thousand small parts through the hallways and into the elevator where they could be assembled into a monstrosity large enough to warrant such an impressive elevator . . . . Of course upon reaching its destination, this object would have to be taken apart to maneuver through the halls. As I tried explaining to a co-worker last week: "Logic isn't malleable. It's sense that's not at all common."
So I'm getting off-point. Here I was taking the stairs, all alone, with anything to do and any way I wanted to do it for 30 minutes, hurrying down stairs facing windows that had been carefully boarded up with thick, vinyl coverings -- as if whatever happened in these empty, forgotten stairs must be kept private. At the bottom, a second doorway I'd never noticed before stands, bricked up, with only fresh grout giving it away. It gave me an excuse to kneel down, tie shoes that were tight, and brush at my pants that were clinging with static, as if I were praying to this forgotten wall, the smell of the dust -- giving thanks for the way my muscles relaxed and my headache subsided.
