Half Way to Heaven

I saw next weekend last night. Call it a vision, call it a gift.

I went to Adams-Morgan. Yes, I am aware of the folly in play here. It was as predicted (and the prediction was dire). But getting home, back to the sweet bosom of my neighborhood of teenaged-hoods and slightly older staffers, required the patience of Job. Which I lack.

First, the 2:21am #96 Bus just never showed up. There were a couple other buses that rolled by, but I kept thinking "But the #96 goes right by my house... it's insane to take this other bus that requires me to walk eight blocks...". Then, this dude at the bus stop, who initially seemed alright, started talking about these chicks that were totally going to bang him and how his friends are totally cool and how he lives with his parents (!) on Capitol Hill and blah blah foolishness blah boobs blah vagina blah straight-guy-bullshit blah. I know that the gays can be a hyperactive stereotype of themselves, but oh my god drunk straight boy: Jesus Wept. No one cares. When I regained consciousness, I had apparently decided to walk from Ad-Mo Hell to U-Street Purgatory.

Long story short, after multiple other late night DC drunken interactions in route to the Metro, I arrived at my station at 3:30am. I was on the last train, and was the only passenger to exit the station. The station attendant followed me off the platform, her boots clicking against the floor. The steel gates had already been pulled shut, except a gap that I could squeeze through. I got onto the escalator and heard her behind me, rattling the gates and getting ready to shut the station. I was staring up at the glowing M on the pylon that had just popped into view at the top of the escalator when the machinery abruptly whirred to a stop, leaving me twenty feet from the top of the tunnel, almost to the surface. I've never been on an escalator that was turned off while I was riding it. Honestly, it feels like the earth stops. By the time that I turned around, the gates were already chained and the station attendant had already disappeared back into her lair to paint her nails and complain about white boys who won't walk to the top of the escalator so they can turn the damn things off.

Yes, DC, I think you are ready to host the nation for the Inauguration. That's where you will leave us: on a silent escalator, staring at a glowing M in the middle of the night, and it will be considered a success.