Escalators: Bad

When I was little, I was at a mall, (formerly The Mall pre-parental divorce) with my mom and my little brother. This was when he was actually very little. So little, in fact, that if Alex was the subject of one of those "Twenty Question" eggs, you would answer No when asked, "Is it bigger than a microwave?"

Just so it's understood, he was riding in a stroller.

The Mall had two floors, I suppose like most malls do, and thus had several escalators and elevators. There was an escalator near the pet shop. There was a set near the movie theatre. And then there was the one set near the coffee shop.

That was the escalator that did me in.

Picture cherubic little me, all of about four years old, with curling brown hair and giant brown puppy dog eyes, trusting in everything. I was probably wearing sneakers that day, with little pink flowers on the sides and one of my cousin's hand-me-down shirts and overalls. And all Mom wanted was a coffee...

So we headed to that central hub, where there was a pretty fountain, and beige colored tiling on the floor, where there was a coffee shop under the down escalator and I could practically taste the weird tubular cookies. There was even going to be a Claire's opening up near the up escalator in a few years.

But Mom was all by herself that day, so it was a juggle. Walk all the way to the elevator? It was practically all the way across the mall, so she had decided that it wasn't a good option. Instead, Mom made the decision to use the escalator, propping the stroller up and having little me grab onto the handle.

Except that I didn't hold onto the stroller, and the last time I was at the mall with Dad, he had told me if my shoes were untied when I rode an escalator, the laces would be sucked under, then my shoes, then my feet, and finally my whole body would be sucked under and I would come out the top looking like ground beef and bloddy guts. And lucky me, I just happened to look down and see one of my shoes was untied.

Here is a picture I made of what I ALWAYS fear will happen when I ride an escalator:

All of that red stuff is my blood and guts and muscles. Kind of like Sweeny Todd. If Sweeny Todd was an escalator with a taste for four year olds.

Almost needless to say, I didn't go down the escalator. Instead, I stood at the top, looking down as my mother left me, descending into the hexagonal space below the floor that was only reachable by the angry, hungry escalator that wanted to start with my shoe strings for an appetizer and end with little girl for dessert.

I cried. Mom yelled at me to stay put, don't go anywhere, don't talk to strangers, she would be right up!

Weirdly enough, no one tried to steal me. (In those days, it seemed like kids were being stolen left and right.) I just stood there and cried. No security guard tried to help my mom or me. No other mom tried to be of any use either.

And ever since then, I have had fears of escalators. I am not afraid of them since I ride them all the time, but honestly, I will take the stairs if they are an option. And I have a tendency to picture myself getting ground up like beef patties every time I approach the end of an escalator. Even if I am wearing flip-flops.