The escalator

So Abdi and I were texting and he told me of a little mishap, the mishap being that he had gotten his big hair caught in the umbrella of a passing person. How ridiculous. Obviously I laughed, the thought of my friends rather large hair being that big that it got stuck in an umbrella was just laughable. Poor Abdi, he really wasn't happy as he told me of his embarrassment. Shaking my head at the silliness of the story it forced me into remembering a really unfortunate incident that I had attempted to banish to the deep darkness of my mind. 

His umbrella skirmish had stirred up a hapless memory I had tried to forget...

It was a Saturday. Some years ago. I was in my city centre with a few friends, shopping, a bit of this - a bit of that. You know, the usual. Anyway, we had boarded an escalator in a clothes store. Up, up and away. I recall David being one of the dudes present, actually. As the escalator slowly went up our group was stood nonchalantly chatting away. On finally reaching the top the boys walked forward, as you do. The men's section beckoned. I attempted to do the same but couldn't. I tried again but couldn't. Then I looked down and saw that my lace was caught in the escalator. It was jammed! Oh crumbs! Cue slight worry and horror as I yanked my foot to break loose. Would it break loose? Well the answer to that is no. My 'friends' on the other hand, David included, found this highly amusing as they watched my (trying to play it cool but) frantic state trying to free myself.

"Help me! Somebody do something!" I was now trapped on a mechanical machine that had my lace in a vice like clamp. The more I panicked the more my friends laughed. The more they laughed the more agitated I became - the more agitated I became - the more people began to look. Also, there were other shoppers coming up on the horizon, the churning escalator was still in motion. These people by now were observing my pitiful state and sniggering at me. Laughing like nasty, wicked hyenas. As you can imagine (or not) I was beginning to feel very sorry for myself as the awful thought crossed my mind. Was this how I was supposed to go out? No, please no! I just wasn't ready.

Why me?! What had I done to deserve this calamitous predicament. Why me?!!

As with these types of incidents I began to grin somewhat nervously. It was either that or cry - and there was no way I was going to allow the little weasels to see me crying like a stupid punk. No! I was on the threshold of menswear.

Abject worry was starting to set in like gangrene, the hyperactive mind wondered if the fire brigade would have to be summoned to remove my shoe from the beast like machine that was mercilessly chomping away at my lace and licking its lips at the prospect of my Nikes. I was still tugging away like a little brat at their mothers skirt. But to no avail. Would I end up losing my foot? Worried to the pit of my stomach it dawned on me that the hideous embarrassment had probably become the entertainment of a porky security guard holed up in a CCTV room, sat there chuckling at my terrible plight.

Then there was the festering indignation of basically looking like a professional prat in front of my so called 'friends' - who would then force me to endure constant reminders of this occasion until they found something else to mock me about. The horrible rats that they are.

In my desperate hour of need I looked up to the ceiling, imagining it to be the heavens and wailed (silently), "Free me, free me like that little old black man! Mandela, free Nelson Mandela!!"

Call it divine intervention of whatever you want but the evil escalator decided to stop chewing on my lace and coughed me free from its jaws of doom. 

I was a free man. I felt just like Mandela did in 1990. I was free to go shopping! My pride had taken a hit and was pretty bruised - but forget that - I was free. Free!! 

Demola, TCC