energy

I go to the movies.
I zoom up to the Chelsea Cinema from the West Village on my new electronic bike.
I spend a lazy Sunday afternoon in anticipation of the movie.

I lock my new bike up right in front of the theatre on 23rd Street.
I am wary to leave it behind. It seems so risky. But this is the new Manhattan.
The safe suburban Manhattan. I join in the faith with the rest of the New York City mall population and just lock it up,
shiny, new, and expensive, and disappear into the Cineplex.

But I worry.

And as I worry, I stagger, I do my palsy walk to the ticket machine.
I buy a small pop corn and small diet coke.
I ask the woman behind the counter (like a crazy person... I am too familiar,
I ask the pop corn attendant if my bike will be safe locked up outside. (Like she would know?)
The young woman is poite and takes pity on me. (Did she see me stumble up to the counter?)

"I think it will be okay, every day I come to work, there are lots of bikes locked up out there and no one steals them."

"Really? I reply, (like this is news, like her answer is so interesting I might just stick around and ask a few more questions.

Which night is the most popular night for the movies?

Do you eat pop corn every day?

Do you see all the movies that come through?

Did you know that I used to work at a movie theatre?

Questions like that.

(Once I land, I am reluctant to move to the next place. This brings out my crazy weird (too familiar) personality)

The woman taking tickets asks me if I need help (or) How am I doing tonight.
Does she also notice my handicapped walk?

My walk brings outs a sort of meekness in me. I have this expression of "don't worry about me!
All is well with me! You go ahead of me, I'm not getting anywhere too fast! HA HA. Doop dee doop dee doo!

I put down my popcorn and coke and stumble back to the entrance to check on my bike.
Still there. Another bike joined mine at the bus stop pole. That's a good sign.

If my bike is stolen, I'll to buy a new one. Tomorrow. (I tell myself)

My theatre in on the third floor.
I take the escalator.

On the third floor, my theatre is far away. It is miles away (for me).
I stumble, I sweat, I am determined, my brow furrowed, my eyes angry.

The theatre is full.
Plenty seats down front, but nothing center or in the back.

There is one empty right near me, second in from the aisle. The last row. This would be perfect.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"

The nice looking dude on the aisle looks over to the next people down the row.

"um... yeah, I think it's taken. Some one's sitting here right? -

"Yeah, some one's sitting there, she's in the bathroom."

- "oh. Okay. Thanks."

Sh*t. F*ck.

I have to walk down the long slope of the aisle, to the front of the movie theatre without a rail, holding popcorn and a diet coke in each hand.

(My mind flashes to how I felt about this situation before this terrible disease. I was bold about walking in front of the New York movie crowd. I relished it. A little bit of my essence, my vulnerable soul, being exposed to an audience for a six count.
It's like flashing or streaking!

Now (however) I imagine an episode where I will fall, I coming crashing down, a small crowd gathers. I will be lifted up by two men. I'll explain,

"I have this weakness, I'm so sorry. I'm fine. Sorry about the popcorn. No, I'm alright. Thank you so much, NO, I'm fine!"

So I stare down the aisle and concentrate. If one person brushes against me, it's over.
I will topple over.

I sweat with concentration.

My walk is pathetic, awkward, jumbled. I stare only at my feet. Delliberate, broken, odd.

I make it. I fall into my seat.
My pants are falling down. I have lost so much mass in my lower body that none of my pants fit.

I hike up my pants, plant my soda in the appropriate receptacle and chew down my popcorn. I did it. I got here.

(I eat mindlessly)

The movie is a great little escape. The Chelsea audience is eating it up.
Sometimes I'm uncomfortable because I am reminded of my vulnerable bike outside.

At the end of the movie. I make my way to the escalator. The down side isn't working. I stand there and stare down the three flights of stairs. The crowd passes me as I lean on the railing. I catch snippets of conversations. I stare at groupings of people. I am often alone. Staring at other subsets of people.

People are annoyed that the escalator doesn't work. This surprises me. I never took the escalator. I enjoyed climbing stairs and working my gluts.

But now I see that even for a perfectly healthy person, one needs to save energy.
By saving energy walking down three flights of stairs, one might have more energy to read a book later or put away the dishes.

I take the elevator down with a man with a cane.

Outside, my bike is waiting for me (this is the new New York). I turn the key and motor home.

* I forgot to add the movie I saw was Julie & Julia. My co-actor Miss Piper was in it, as was an old friend's brother, Steve.
Also, I used to do spots with Stanley Tucci for AT&T. He does the announce. I did goofy characters. Once, however, I replaced him on the announce.

All of this is to say, I matter, I am important.

Okay? People?