The doors slide open and disgorge a hundred or more: the young with packs, the old with satchels, the slender and the obese, the lithe and the limping, the tattooed and the tanned, a mass moving up the platform sorting itself into two streams, escalator on the right, stairs on the left. After dodging around this one, gesturing this other one forward, wriggling through the queue--oops, this bemused person in front just stopped dead in her tracks; quick slip behind--I'm at the first step of the stairs.
We are four abreast, filling the stairs side to side, slogging upward, single step by single step, from the platform to the main floor of the station. One young man wants to take the steps two at a time, but the moving mass has no extra spaces, will not speed up. I'm not aware of that bulging butt or droopy drawers right in front of my face but rather the diversity of footwear--sandals, stilettos, boots, hi-tops, pumps--as my head is down as I concentrate on not tripping.
Then, suddenly, some young man, or girl, or family stream heading impetuously counter-current down the stairs, perhaps against the railing, perhaps right in the middle. I look up to see someone coming the other way who expects me to move, me to move where? I miss my step and stumble as I squeeze into the already packed herd of humanity beside me. Heedless, the descenders push through imperiously, like Moses through the Red Sea. Couldn't you just wait, I ask myself. Can't you see how many we are, more or less blindly toiling our way to the surface? Forebear just a moment, why don't you. Why insist on now? Can't you see how many of us you inconvenience?
========
The train finally pulls in with a screech and the doors thump open. Just my luck! The crowd gushing from the train is going to want to get upstairs right away, and the stairs are going to be chock-a-block full of the whole range of train-riding humanity, the home-from-work, the out-of-school, the idle couples, the readers (can't they stop for even a moment), the talkers, the huffers and puffers, mothers and hang-back kids, disheveled Karloff men, Baba Yaga women, all coming up, when I need to go down. Can't you leave a little space for me, you mute mass. I have a right to get to the train before it leaves. You'll get to the top, but you may make me late for the closing doors.
So down I go. Heads up, look where you're going! You're going to run into me, and all I'm doing is just what I've every right to do--get down to the platform to get my train. Can't you see?
We are four abreast, filling the stairs side to side, slogging upward, single step by single step, from the platform to the main floor of the station. One young man wants to take the steps two at a time, but the moving mass has no extra spaces, will not speed up. I'm not aware of that bulging butt or droopy drawers right in front of my face but rather the diversity of footwear--sandals, stilettos, boots, hi-tops, pumps--as my head is down as I concentrate on not tripping.
Then, suddenly, some young man, or girl, or family stream heading impetuously counter-current down the stairs, perhaps against the railing, perhaps right in the middle. I look up to see someone coming the other way who expects me to move, me to move where? I miss my step and stumble as I squeeze into the already packed herd of humanity beside me. Heedless, the descenders push through imperiously, like Moses through the Red Sea. Couldn't you just wait, I ask myself. Can't you see how many we are, more or less blindly toiling our way to the surface? Forebear just a moment, why don't you. Why insist on now? Can't you see how many of us you inconvenience?
========
The train finally pulls in with a screech and the doors thump open. Just my luck! The crowd gushing from the train is going to want to get upstairs right away, and the stairs are going to be chock-a-block full of the whole range of train-riding humanity, the home-from-work, the out-of-school, the idle couples, the readers (can't they stop for even a moment), the talkers, the huffers and puffers, mothers and hang-back kids, disheveled Karloff men, Baba Yaga women, all coming up, when I need to go down. Can't you leave a little space for me, you mute mass. I have a right to get to the train before it leaves. You'll get to the top, but you may make me late for the closing doors.
So down I go. Heads up, look where you're going! You're going to run into me, and all I'm doing is just what I've every right to do--get down to the platform to get my train. Can't you see?
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