Up, Up, and Away

Many times in the evenings, as I walk from work to the Metro, I dream of being a son of Krypton.

The station at King Street (my stop for work) is elevated about two stories above the ground, with an open-air platform right in the heart of Old Town Alexandria. It’s the rare station where you can see exactly what’s goin’ on from a long ways out. I can’t tell you how frustrating it is to enter the plaza across the street and see a train sitting up on that platform already, taunting me. Missing my Yellow Line at this end can cost me an extra 10 or 15 minutes by the time I get all the way home. It’s times like these where I wish I was Clark Kent, so I could just super-sprint or super-leap onto the platform from two hundred yards away and get right on my train. (Yes, if I could do that, technically I could just run the 18 miles home in a few minutes, but you’ll have to indulge me.)

As a result of my rather poor eyesight, it’s my theory my other senses are stronger than your average bear's. My hearing is so good, in fact, that from this plaza I can hear the Metro conductor honk his horn as he exits the tunnel about a half-mile away leading up to the King Street station (whenever trains enter and exit tunnels they beep, as a rule—seems dumb to me, but whatever). If I'm outside the station’s parking lot when I hear that sound, I’m screwed; I know there’s no way I’m catching that train. If I’m inside the parking lot and start running—literally running—I can typically power up the escalator and scoot into the train all huffing and puffing. It is really that fine a distinction; about 10 feet and a single traffic light make all the difference in my finely tuned Metro-riding world.

I’m in the parking lot today when I hear the horn, so I take off, jacket flapping like Supes’ red cape. Whoosh—I’m through turnstiles and barely break stride. And then I see it: At the bottom of the escalator, a mom wedging her child’s stroller on the steps and starting her way up. This is a big no-no; strollers do not belong here—that’s what the elevator’s for.

I can hear the train rumbling above my head like something out of a Johnny Cash song as I hit the bottom of the stairs. “Excuse me,” I say to the woman’s back.

No response. More important, no movement.

I gotta make this train, so I have no more time for pleasantries. She’s still not trying to accommodate anyone else in the slightest, mind you, right down to the fact she’s put the stupid stroller right in the middle of the steps, not even to the right side reserved for her escalumping kind. I squeeze as far to the left as I can, but at this point I don’t much care if I jostle her. And I just can’t help myself:

“That’s what elevators are for!”

I don’t pause for a reaction. Taking the steps two at a time (is there any other way?), I pound up the escalator just as the train pulls up and opens its doors. Out of breath and more than a little irritated, I flop into an empty seat. But I’ll make it home a few minutes sooner than I otherwise would have.

Totally worth it.