Chapter Nine - The Escalator Ascension: A Childhood Flashback, a Skinned Knee, and Transcendence at 0.4 MPH

CHAPTER NINE

The Escalator Ascension: A Childhood Flashback, a Skinned Knee, and Transcendence at 0.4 MPH

THE ESCALATOR STARES at me.
I stare back.
We have history.

When I was five, I scraped my knee on one of these metallic stair-dragons.
Tried to run up the down side.
Thought I was clever.
Escalator said, “Bet.”

Now, years later, I return—not as a boy, but as a man-child with Hey Dudes and a denim redemption arc.

I step on.
Click-whirr-chunk.
The mechanical ballet begins.

The handrail moves slightly faster than the steps, so I grip it like I’m hanging off the side of a train in an action movie.
People behind me don’t know I’m fighting flashbacks.

Halfway up, I make eye contact with a child riding the down escalator.
He’s holding a balloon.
He knows.
He’s been chosen.
He mouths,

“Don’t look back.”
Then he’s gone.

A mall announcement echoes faintly through the atrium:

“Attention shoppers: There’s no actual destination, only the ride. Also, the pretzel place has cinnamon twists back in stock.”

A dad behind me mutters,

“Escalators are like life, huh? Always moving, never sure if you’re going up or down.”
I nod solemnly, even though he’s probably just talking about the one at Sears.

At the top, I step off like I’m dismounting a noble steed.
I whisper,

“I’ve conquered you.”
The escalator does not respond.
But I swear I hear it exhale.

I look down at the path I’ve traveled.
There’s a child trying to slide up the down side.

The cycle continues.