If Dickens had worked at the National Polygon, he would have written about the happenings in the basement; for it is the Underworld, the slums, the debtor prison, the orphanage, the milieu of the vagabonds and unsavory misfortunates of the Polygon's wretched side. Whenever I find myself down there I recall his words: “A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other.”
I traverse through the basement when I want to make best speed from my office to the PAC (Polygon Athletic Center). Monday I miscalculated (which is a nice way of saying that I just plain wasn't paying attention) and got off the escalator on the mezzanine. Mezzanine mezzanine – sounds so glorious: the mezzanine, like the sun deck on a cruise ship or the really choice seats at a sports stadium! But no, come now. This is our National Polygon. Still, it is one step above the basement – or at least one floor. Anyway, I walked about half a corridor over before I looked up and realized that they had not cleaned up the walls and relocated some reputable offices in the basement, but rather I was off course. I was at the wrong latitude.
After regaining my track, I found my way down one more level and began to wend my way through the thoroughly confusing but always amusing circuitous corridors of the ‘B’ ring of the ‘B’ level. As I approached the first blind intersection, I saw that my path was inexorably blocked by a large grey cart straight out of a Star Wars movie. Strange it was to me that driver of this six foot by four foot gray rectangular bucket didn’t pause at intersections; when I had a chance to get a look at him, I realized that neither caution nor anything resembling responsible adult behavior typically occurred to him.
That was fine. Although I had been eagerly speedwalking to get to my workout, I was so intrigued by this creature, I had no problem waiting for him to pass by at his parade-like pace. He looked to be no more than about seven and forty years old, but was probably actually ten years younger still. Within the maximum height restriction of 5'5", he was as challenged as he was proud of the garbage car he wheeled with such dominance through these corridors: never once careening it off of the walls as seems to have been the fate of so many to have come before his. English was clearly not this man’s first language, but his senses (and sense of his surroundings) seemed alien to my most vocal body language – which is not to say that I was farting; just that I was practically doing the Heisman to get around his cart and executing a veritable game of red rover to safely get to the next corridor so I could continue on my way to workout bliss. I made a point of breathing like I had a cold since my nose was pretty much level with the contents of his trash bin during this whole encounter. Providence saw it fit on this day for me to make it past this Quasimodian garbageman, and I safely made it to the PAC without further incident.
Upon my return to this particular section of the basement, the bowels really, where the elevators terminate, there were three people lounging on tall boxes, mocking a fourth who was attempting to sweep the floor near their feet. The latter fellow – a bent over Mexican-looking man, younger than the others, looked to be annoying the ring-leader of the trio a great deal. I am sure there was some history behind the angst he was causing Ho-Chi-Mihn (who kept snarling and sucking like his dentures were in backwards), but damned if I could see what he was really doing wrong at this instant.
“You need to shhiitt down-- oveah dare-- go ova dare and shhhittt… Nooooooah! You go shhhhiiiiitttt ovah dare! I can take no more. Schtopp!”
Jose almost seemed to be enjoying the rage he was inciting because he just kept sweeping. I chuckled to myself – or at least I thought it was to myself. The pair of people behind the ring-leader, a yoda-like man and a woman who looked like a telly tubby, regarded me curiously as I paused for a moment to take this scene in before I rounded the corner on my journey back to civilization – or at least militarization. And again I heard dear Dickens: “In any of the burial places of this city through which I pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?”
1 comment:
Nice!
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