I Was A 27-Year-Old Teenager On A Mission! (Pt. 6: Love on an Escalator!)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: What's your favorite '80s band? Chime in after today's post! - Erin

(Continued from yesterday . . .)

Friday, July 15, 2005

2:07 p.m.

When we left off, my plan to ride gleefully, diagonally, all the way from the ninth floor to the library basement had been almost instantly foiled -- for the embarrassing reason that I lost sight of the escalator after only one floor. That takes talent! Now I must cheat and ride the elevator down one level to hopefully reboard the moving staircase there, assuming I can find it. Fingers crossed that fairies haven't cast a spell making escalators invisible to me. (You never know.)

A man gets in the elevator after me and punches level 3. He can tell from the glowy number seven I am only traveling one level -- going down, no less! -- and must surely think me the Laziest Person on Earth. I can sense his distain positively filling our claustrophobia chamber, which is totally rude of him. And misguided. Surely there is at least one lazier person out there.

When we arrive on the seventh floor, I dash out of the elevator, hoping to catch the escalator as it ducks behind a bookshelf or is beamed up a la Scotty. But the escalator is not hiding. It is right where it's supposed to be, descending from and ascending to the eighth floor, just a stone's throw from the elevator. I swear it wasn't there back when I was on eight. This is a mirage. I must ride it to check that it actually exists.

2:11 p.m.

Well, pinch me, it's for real. I rode back up to eight and then back down again to seven. Somebody must have spiked my Slimfast earlier, but at least it feels good to know the library architects were not total morons. Time to resume my diagonal downward trek. And with an hour left to kill before the book discussion (remember that?), I'll be damned if I'm gonna do any actual stepping on these escalators, other than on and off. I am a rider only. If my knees and feet work, I shant be showing it. (Perhaps snooty Elevator Guy was right -- I am the Laziest Person on Earth.)

The guy behind me in the black cap does not appreciate my strong will and lead feet. I feel him literally breathing down my neck a step behind me, even though there is no one near us and International Escalator Law dictates you leave at least one step between you and other riders (lest anyone should need to fart, maybe). I must assume Cap Guy is in a very big hurry to check out Theo and Me, the autobiography of former Cosby kid Malcolm Jamal Warner. Who wouldn't be?

But that's his problem, not mine. Mine is trying to conjure an appropriate mental soundtrack for my little ride. I try to recall songs about escalators, but all I can think of are grating hits about related forms of transport (Aerosmith's "Love in an Elevator," Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Rollercoaster of Love"). Since Chicago is big on revolving doors, I wonder if there are any jams about love in one of those. That would be tricky.

Hey, I know! How about "Round and Round" by Ratt? Consider the lyrics:

Lookin' at you, lookin' at me
The way you move, you know it's easy to see

Sounds to me like lead singer Stephen Pearcy is caught in a revolving door at some Sunset Strip hotel, only a pane of glass between him and a hot, trashy female member of the Ratt Pack. Stephen would like to sleep with this woman, of course. But neither party is very bright, either thanks to genetics or to a night of wicked partying with Sebastian Bach, Jani Lane, and Nikki Sixx. Lyrics again:

Round and round
With love we'll find a way just give it time
Round and round
What comes around goes around

Just give it time? How long does a revolving door take -- two seconds, maybe four? It sounds like Mr. Ratt and Ms. Pack are just pushing the door around in circles over and over again, not realizing that one of them must make the first move and exit the contraption if they're ever going to take it upstairs. Get a room, you two! Other people need to use the door!

(To be continued . . . Tomorrow I break more rules, study more teenagers, and try not to take a hideously ugly KISS t-shirt too personally. . . )