Day XXVI: Escalator

Well, shit.

Every Friday, it's coffee day. Around 9:30, or whenever the final employee arrives--and it's always Aaron--a group of three to seven of us clamor through the skyway in search of fancy espresso based beverages. Here's how it usually breaks down.

The Coffee Train

Colleen orders a skim mocha, no whip. No pastry.

Alex orders a tea with steamed soy milk, otherwise known as a "London Fog." No pastry.

I order a mint mocha with soy milk, no whip, less hot, half the flavor, only 8oz. Apple Fritter, when possible.

Aaron orders a white mocha, extra shot. Donut, when possible.

Jen orders a hazelnut latte, soy milk. No pastry.

Kelly orders a black coffee, always last, so she doesn't have to spend as much time waiting for the fancies. No pastry. No nonsense.

All aboard!

The baristas always look happy to see us, and I hope it's genuine! Coming from a coffeeshop background, I can safely and truthfully say that just because your barista is smiling, doesn't mean they're particularly happy to be helping you. (Unless you got tips, baby. Then I'm always happy to see you. Which makes me feel like a prostitute. Which I am okay with. Which makes me nervous that I am okay with being labeled a prostitute.) We cause an abnormal amount of ruckus in most of the cafes we frequent, but a larger group of people is going to do that anyway. What I don't understand, completely, is how we always loop to some terrifying topic of conversation.

Today: prime example!

Alex and I were leading the pack--I'm a very fast walker due to years of runway-ready training and Alex hates the cold hallways so she tends to scurry. As we were round the corner of the Gaviidae commons, mounting the downward-moving escalator, she recounted a terrifying tale. Apparently, a woman snagged her scarf in an escalator, strangling her in the process. Rather than get outta the scarf, she leaned into the fabric to rip it away, but instead got her hair ripped into the vanishing metal staircase. Caught by her hair and her accessory, she was killed.

Now, the story Alex relayed is insanely tragic. It's devastating. What a frightening and sad way to die! Now, Alex is terrified of escalators and what they're capable of. Poor little dear. Of course I laughed at her. There's no reason to be scared of escalators! That's a one-on-a-million event! No one ever get's caught in an escalator!

Wrong.

I decided to be nice and pick up some Reeses for the office during my lunch break by swinging over to Target. I was just trying to be helpful! I didn't even need to be there!

On my way off the escalator, I felt a tug on my right leg. I looked down in time to watch the bottom of my shoe unravel at the heel. A loose thread got stuck and the escalator tore at my footwear like a hungry, steel-forged demon.

Of course, the shoe thread was much weaker and cut away very quickly, leaving my nearly-mangled foot in a much better way.

When I returned to the office--I should have kept the damn candy for myself and my ego--I apologized for laughing at Alex and showed her my ripped shoe. As I started to recount my story, I was quickly reminded that all that really matters to anyone is whether or not the food made it safely:

"BUT DID YOU BRING BACK THE CHOCOLATE OR WHAT?"

Yes, you hyenas, here are your damn sweets.