YESTERDAY MORNING

(Part 2 of A Bemoan, written on December 22)

(We pick up our tale as our protagonist exits the subway station, desperately grasping the waistline of his trousers to keep them from falling down).

People who know New York City are aware that our city blocks have a “three minute” side — the time it takes to walk the length of the block (east-west); and a “one minute” side — the time it takes to walk the width of the block (north-south). When I emerged from the subway, still holding up my pants, I realized I was two long blocks away from where I needed to be; further, the fact that my gait was slower than years previous meant that the two lengths would be closer to “five minute” sides, and I was still quite concerned about getting to the church on time.

Fortunately, there was a bus stop just a few feet ahead. Unfortunately, the bus was already there. Fortunately, there was a bit of a queue, so it would take a minute before everyone was on board. Unfortunately, it was one of those buses where you use your Metrocard to procure a paper voucher from a sidewalk machine, rather than using your Metrocard on the bus itself. Fortunately, there were two machines and only three women at them. Unfortunately, the second and third women didn’t know how to use the machines. Fortunately, the first woman, who had completed her procurement, stepped back from boarding the bus and showed the second woman what to do. Unfortunately, the third woman didn’t pay attention and, in a near panic, stopped trying to use the machine where she was and almost pushed me aside to get to the one I was about to use. Since she didn’t know what to do, she abandoned her efforts and hurried to the bus to complain to the driver, preventing anyone (read “me”) from showing her how it was done. Fortunately, the driver allowed her to board just as my voucher was dispensed. Unfortunately, he began closing the door and I had to hurry toward the bus, calling out to wait, please. Fortunately, he did, and opened the door for me. Unfortunately, in my haste to get on quickly, and because I didn’t have my cane as support, I caught the toe of my shoe on the step and pitched face-first onto the floor, banging my head against the back of the driver’s platform. Of course, my hands flew forward to break my fall, which meant neither one was holding onto my waistband.

The whole bus gasped.

Loudly.

In fact, some people screamed.

Fortunately, I had landed, outstretched, flat on my face, before my pants were able to slip very far, so the noises of consternation were, apparently, due to the loud WHUMP noise my carcass made as I smacked the floor and NOT, praise be!, because of any exposure of my foundation garment area.

I struggled to my feet, another challenge without my cane, particularly as I was trying to haul my pants up as I stood, and they didn’t want to be hauled…Sheesh!…and the gentleman at whose feet I had fallen kindly offered me his place to sit.

It was a disproportional amount of drama for riding only a couple of blocks, and soon I was back on the sidewalk, headed to the Gargantua store.

Because I’d had the presence of mind to call ahead, the sales staff was already apprised of my predicament and a new shirt was ready for me in no time. I gave the salesman my credit card and asked him to be ringing it up while I changed, as I had no time to waste. I made my purchase, stuffed my other shirt into the bag, and headed up the stairs and across the street to catch a cab to the church.

Fifteen minutes remained before the noon deadline, and I wondered if I should use the subway instead; it was noon traffic, after all. I reached for my phone to check which lines were closest to my location and…it wasn’t there. I checked my other pocket. It wasn’t there, either. I reached into my bag to check if it was in the pocket of the shirt I’d been wearing. Nope. I reached to my chest to check the pocket of my new shirt.

My new shirt didn’t have a pocket.

Oh, blast. I had taken the phone out of my other shirt in order to change into the new one and had forgotten to pick it up again.

I made my way, as quickly as I could, back across the street, down the escalator to the store, and around the corner to the service desk where I found the salesman and explained my predicament. He led me back to where I’d changed and, yes, there it was, sitting on top of the display shelf as if it were for sale. I thanked him for his help then hied me back upstairs and back across the street.

Mind you, I’m not only still having to hold up my pants this whole time, but I’m also slightly limping from the fall on the bus, and stumbling because I’m starting to wear out from not having the support of my cane. I looked like a mismatched, inebriated vagabond whose pants were sagging dreadfully on the one side, and who seemed to be suffering some kind of painful affliction on the other, with his hand pressed firmly slightly above his waist, and his elbow sticking out to the side at almost shoulder level.

Yeah, YOU try walking around like that and see how people react.

There was definitely no time for a cab, now, so I checked my phone to see which subway to take. PRAISE BE! The station I needed was not more than ten paces away; so, I hastened there.

Just about the time I reached the tracks, the train arrived and I was able to get on almost immediately. AND I was able to get a seat! Things were beginning to look up, I thought. Then I looked at the subway map posted inside the train and realized that, although I had gone into the correct station…yes, you guessed it…

…I had boarded the wrong train.

(to be continued…)