I am eighty years-old. Or at least sometimes it feels that way. Yesterday my afternoon my activities consisted of the following: sitting in a chair and staring out the window, reading, listening to old Limelighters records (a trio popular in the 60’s), making eggnog lattes, and watching Jeopardy!. Jeopardy! was the highlight of the afternoon, although staring out the window came in a close second. And this was at a friend’s house. Imagine the torpor and skull-crushing boredom that happens when I’m alone.
After Jeopardy! I made my down icy sidewalks to the bus stop on 65th and 25th to catch the 71 down to the ferry. Except the 71 never came. I stood there for fifteen minutes in the blistering cold talking on and off with a group of drunk college kids who over the course of our our wait asked me: what time the bus was coming, if I had a lighter, what book I was reading, and how far I was along in said book (they were very thorough drunks). Eventually they had enough of waiting and left, and I decided that if I ever wanted to get to get home I would probably have to leave, too. So I started walking. And this is when my toes got cold.
If you’ve ever worn a walking cast you know that it is by no means a sealed and insulated entity. Indeed, as far as the toes are concerned, the air can come and go as it pleases, which is a problem when the temperature dips anything below fifty degrees. Last night it was probably eighteen degrees. Tops. And the only thing I had between my bare skin and the elements was a thin layer of sock.
I started walking down 65th and immediately ran into difficulties. I am not very adept at walking in the boot in the most optimal conditions, so each step on icy terrain is a veritable leap of faith. Going down the hill to 20th I almost ate shit at least four times, due in large part to my compulsive checking over my shoulder (like a wild-eyed fugitive) to see if the bus was coming. Of course it never was coming, but I kept checking, risking forays onto patches of ice, simply because I knew how much I would hate myself if the bus came and and the only reason I failed to get on because I was caught between stops waddling around in my boot.
By the Pied Piper Alehouse my toes were really starting to hurt. The rest of my foot felt normal but my toes felt like they had recently been introduced to the business end of a framing hammer. I was completely convinced that I had developed frostbite. I mean, not like Jon Krakauer Into Thin Air type shit, but close. Meanwhile, I’m huffing and puffing because I’m an out of shape bastard and haven’t walked this far in weeks, so the rest of my body is starting to overheat. My face—rosier than an out-of-work fisherman’s—expelled steam in great quantities from the nose and mouth. My torso and hands were a sweaty mess. Why couldn’t my body take some of this excess heat and transfer it down below?
Finally, I make it up and over the hill that leads to 15th, and lo and behold, there’s the 71, sitting just in front of the bus stop like it’s been there all night, taunting me for having the gall to think it would actually drive all the way out to 35th. I mosey up to the driver and ask him what the deal is and he tells me that they’re on a limited schedule, a.k.a. they service two-and-a-half stops about once every four hours. Well, maybe not that limited, but you get the idea. I get on the bus where it’s warm and wiggle my toes to make sure they’re still somewhat functional and that I shouldn’t be heading to Swedish instead of to the ferry. I think they’re OK.
Close call, though, for an eighty year-old.
-Wetzler
This entry was written by , posted on December 20, 2008 at 9:43 pm, filed under Uncategorized, master cleanse and tagged 71, another roadside attraction, ice, king county metro, snow, storm, transit. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.