We were going to lunch when it happened.
A long-time colleague and I were getting to know the new guy at work, leaving our office at 200 Park and riding one of the world’s most famous escalators into Grand Central Terminal. It’s the one in all those commercials with thousands of people streaming by – Madison Avenue’s picture of the ultimate public place. I can’t be sure what precipitated the fall – only that I was utterly unprepared for it.
I started near the top, and went head first. OK, that’s a lie; I went arm-holding-wallet first, followed by head down the escalator much to the consternation of my colleagues. At the end of all that flailing, my wallet was battered and scraped, my left knee bleeding, my face resting on an escalator stair and my right foot in custody of the new guy, who was, we have to assume, trying to prevent further slippage. Sadly for what little dignity I had at the top of the stairs, I was wearing a dress. (I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize to my colleagues for this unfortunate incident.)
Now, I’m a fully qualified professional faller, prone to comedic spills all over town. But there’s something special about falling on an escalator: when you’re done falling, you’re still headed down. And as the end of the escalator approaches, I’m faced with the prospect of lying in a puddle at the base of the behemoth (or, perhaps, kicking up my other leg and asking my co-worker to wheelbarrow me to lunch). If only I could convince him to let go of my leg before my hair reaches the re-entry point for escalator stairs; I fear I may be scalped.
I’ve been at this klutz business most of my life. I fell on my face when I was about 3 and it deadened my front teeth; they had to be yanked and I have about 4 years of toothless school pictures and a lisp as a result. And you know how a cartoon character can catch a metal bar just under nose height and swing around it with the momentum of the impact? So can I. Did it outside the Planetarium in New York, aged about six or so. My brother is STILL mad we didn’t make it to the Statue of Liberty as a result. I once bounced down an entire flight of stairs at work, a feat notable only because there was a 180-degree switchback halfway down. I’ve fallen out of two cars and off a moped (all stationary), accidentally genuflected in the middle of Times Square during rush hour, and broken my ankle by missing a single step. I own a cane. What I’m saying is – I fall a lot.
The most common question I’m asked when describing a new fall is “what happened?” Generally, I have no idea. In fact it took me a while to understand that most people don’t fall unless there’s a damn good reason. Oh sure, occasionally I’ve got a lumpy sidewalk or other prop to blame, but more often than not I’m just walking along minding my own business when I go splat in the road. I’m up… I’m up… I’m up… I’m down.
I can tumble on snow or ice, or trip when inebriated, but that kind of stuff is for amateurs. I feel the same way about skiing: why should I strap 2 sticks to my legs and have someone push me down an icy mountain when I can achieve the same result in this poorly paved parking garage for a fraction of the cost? I’m on to more advanced skills like popping a shoe up above head height during the fall, or gaining the attention of 2 or more NYC policemen. If you’re going to use props, be flamboyant with them.
Until this escalator escapade, my favorite fall happened in SoHo, where the streets are cobbled and the sidewalks dotted with metal whatsits that once serviced factories and warehouses. You know the things – disused siamese standpipes or steam valves, lying dormant and plotting revenge in the decades since the real estate was converted to lofts and the neighborhood industry to luxury retail. These enemies of the upright are not quite in line with the parking signs, are wider and lower than fire-hydrants and are lying, even now, willy-nilly around sidewalks already crowded with people prepared to pay $200 for a toilet brush. Just, you might find, out of eye range as you peruse the store windows or watch the Fabulous stroll by.
Enter my friend Cormac, a gallant lad, delightful companion on post-brunch strolls through the city, and an avid window-shopper. I believe he was inspecting chairs for his living room while I tumbled. What follows is pure cartoon – I walk full force into the thingy-ma-hopper, which causes me to fall over onto the hood of a parked car. I continue to roll until I’ve turned completely around and righted myself with the grudging assistance of a parking meter. All this takes up about the time and space of a store window, and Cormac turns back to me: “Ready to go?” he asks.
I have a lot of unanswered questions. Did he see me fall? Has he decided to ignore it? Does he think I’m simply practicing my dramatic dance moves? If he’s missed the whole thing, should I break it to him? How else will I explain the limp?
My life is complicated.
And that brings us to an oft-overlooked part of falling: the recovery (or, as I like to call it, the dismount). We professionals are judged on the time it takes to return to a standing position, amount of bloodshed, total ground covered by parcels, eyewear and other accessories, and the number of people who either gasp or ask “are you OK?” I hit the ground while walking through the East Village with my bestie, and as I gathered myself to undertake a slow and shaky dismount, her response was “you know, for all the falling you do, I think this is the first time I’ve ever witnessed it.”
I’m gonna be fine. But thanks for asking.
