The Stairs

“Guess I’ll go down and see what happens,” I said to him. Brooks Brothers shrugged. I took a deep breath and kept moving. It wasn’t that I was tired; it’s certainly easier going down than up. But I worried. Was this some kind of government action? Why was everyone so blindly moving downward? Who was in charge? Why wouldn’t anyone give me an answer? Who were we all following anyway?

Now I glowered. I’m usually unflappable. I receive rave performance reviews. I can handle any sticky situation. I even talked a woman out of shooting herself. I just seem to know what to say and when not to say anything at all. All of this stair stepping raised my heart rate. Physically, I could handle the cardiovascular activities this night thrust upon me. I ran two or three times per week and went to the gym the other nights. Which isn’t to say I dazzled anyone with a fit body. I always had a little flabbiness. Pleasingly plump you could say.

Little in the way of sound emanated from the crowd. People just kept moving downward, their gazes directed and focused, smiles on their lips, a calm, but insistent pressure pulsing from their combined bodies. A singular momentum carried me forward. What if I shouted? I thought about a plan. I would stop, stand on the step and cry out “What is going on here? Where are we all going?” I thought about it for five or ten minutes. We dropped below ground, the remaining sunlight gone. I couldn’t bring myself to execute my plan. I cowered in my coat. Everyone seemed to know the score. I didn’t want to look like an idiot. I shoved my hands into my pockets and let the crowd deliver me where it would, my right hand clasped around my cell phone in my pocket. Cell phone! I would call someone. The police or fire department. I pulled out my phone and pressed the icon for my address book, scrolled to the local police station name and pushed the call button. I raised the phone to my ear. It barely rang, as I imagine the tons of concrete above us and below us prevented any signal from traveling. Then the gentleman behind me, efficient as a gifted magician, reached down, pulled my cell phone from my hand and stashed it in his pocket. I stopped, turned and shouted “That’s mine! Give me my phone back!”

“Please keep moving,” the man said. The young girl to my right said, “You’ll need to proceed down miss.” Mister Brooks Brothers said, “Just follow us. Won’t be long now.”

“But I want to go home.” I sounded pathetic.

“Home?” Mister Brooks Brothers said.

“Yes, you know, where I live?”

 “Oh, that, yes.” He did not look at me when speaking to me. “Hey, look at me mister! Why do we need to go so far down underground? Is this a new detour for the construction of the luxury apartments across the way?” The older, elegant man, who at that moment I noticed was Japanese, tapped me on the shoulder. I turned.

“Please come with me, miss.”

“No.”

“Please, miss, you’ll want to follow me.” He wore black slacks, an expensive designer dress shirt, also black and black coat and tie with raised black squares. Very chic. Over this ensemble a black camel hair coat and on his shoulder a black nylon case. Not sure why, but I trusted him. He had a nice face, not a sinister one like some ninja or government operative from a movie. So I followed him and the crowds waited, watching us pass them on the stairs.

“Where are we going?”

“To the bottom,” he said.

“Will a door let us out to the street?”

“We are going to the bottom,” he said.

“Who are you?”

“Mr. Black,” he replied.

“Oh, clever.” I was growing more irritated by the minute. “I get it. The man in black.”

“Something like that,” he said. “Come,” he said. The young girl and Mister Brooks Brothers waved. “See you,” Brooks said. “Bye,” the girl said.