Emergency Exit
The first time I really thought about what that meant, I was a senior in high school. My English teacher asked me to take a picture of the 11th graders by a large American flag. Jokingly, I suggested I take the shot from the roof of the school bus. She thought that was a great idea.
"Just use the emergency exit," the bus driver said, pointing up at the ceiling.
Emergency Exit.
Riding the city bus home from work last June, I leaned back in my seat and glanced up at the ceiling. "Emergency exit," I whispered.
"What?" the man sitting next to me asked.
"Can I borrow some of your paper?" I said.
He handed me the "Nation" section of the Washington Post. I opened it up to an article about embezzlement and looked back up at the ceiling. Exit.
I thought of the same things that I'd thought of years ago on the way home from that field trip. I dreamed of escaping through a slip in time, of gliding into a parallel existance, of a hand reaching out to pull me into the next great discovery.
"Emergency exits," the stewardess points toward the sides of the plane.
"Ma'am?" I ask when she's done with her shpeal. "Do you know how late we'll be?"
"We're right on time," she said. We are. Emergency. Exit.
I dream of throwing the latch and jumping from the plane, of falling and falling into an ever-growing world. My hair would feel like it does when the subway runs by, when I stand right by the edge and close my eyes. The rumble, the wind, my body feels as it would fall forward into certain death.
Exit. Generations of generations pass through the open door, taking hands on the other side and leaving their valuables behind.
The back of the bus smells of grease and gasoline. I exit at my stop, right on time. On time for a life that's in a time like any other. Who's to say which exit to take? Who's to say which hand to grab on to?
Only to be used in the case of an emergency.
And I'm a fool to think I'm anything extrodinary.
posted by Isay @ 6:19 PM
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