Pratfalls Are My Business

It was the first time in a few years a bunch of us old Guggenheimers were able to get together for an evening. It used to be a regular part of the schedule?but in recent days, work schedules, distance, so many factors had gotten in the way. n Finally that weekend, Linda was in town from Florida, John took a break from work, Sue was free and I was having mysterious poltergeist-related computer troubles at home, so I wasn't going to be getting any work done there. We all decided we'd get together at John's place and?like we used to do every couple of weeks?watch some movies of questionable taste and artistic value. It was usually up to John or me to provide the entertainment, so he called me earlier that morning to see if I had anything on hand that was worth watching.

Turns out I did, so when I got off the train at the Carroll St. stop in Brooklyn, I was toting that all-American Japanese monster epic, The Green Slime (which features the greatest theme song in movie history) and a 1971 Al Adamson atrocity called Dracula vs. Frankenstein (which features, sadly, the final performances of both Lon Chaney Jr. and J. Carrol Naish).

I thought it was a pretty decent double-bill, myself.

It was shortly before 5 on a bright and warm Saturday afternoon, and I found myself making that long stroll down Union toward the Gowanus. It's a necessary and treasured part of getting to John's place. Given the hour and the bright sun, I left the cane in my bag, figuring I could make it down there just fine. The sidewalk was wide and empty. The beers I'd had with Morgan earlier in the day weren't too cumbersome. At least I wasn't staggering or mumbling to myself.

Some four blocks from John's place, I noticed a small commotion up ahead. Upon listening more closely, I determined that it was a group of four or five Puerto Rican teenagers bouncing a basketball around in the middle of the sidewalk. In preparation, I started to gauge a path around them.

This wasn't terribly easy, considering my lack of depth perception and the fact that they were spread across the entire sidewalk. No matter. I suppose I could've cut through them, praying I didn't kick their ball into the street in the process. That might be rude, though, interrupting their game that way, when they seemed to be having such a fine time. So instead, I opted for the inside path, veered over to the buildings on my right and bounced my own way along, figuring that would be safe enough. What I hadn't taken into account, however (because I couldn't see them), were the low-lying front steps of these buildings.

Suddenly I was off-kilter, one foot not going down quite so far as the other, then?oop! it was back on level ground again, then two steps later, carried by the momentum?yipe!?I was halfway on another step again?then bam!?back down.

By sheer accident, I was able to negotiate the first three of these steps. By the fourth, though?the set of steps directly adjacent to these kids?my timing had been knocked all out of whack. So much of negotiating this city is a matter of proper timing?

So, the next thing I know, I'm lying flat on my stomach, legs straight out behind me, toes still curled back over the edge of the step, arms stretched straight out in front. My bag and hat are nowhere to be seen. None of the kids were talking or laughing or bouncing a basketball anymore (though maybe I couldn't hear them, given the way my ears were ringing).

Oh, and there was that pain thing, too.

"Hey, man?you okay?" a voice above me asked. I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"Oh, yeah," I said, pushing myself upright. "Boy...I sure didn't see that coming." I tried to force a smile, but didn't get very far with it.

"You sure you're okay?" the kid asked again. I saw him now. He must've been the oldest of the lot?maybe 17, wearing a baseball cap.

"Oh yeah," I repeated, too, trying to get myself into some sort of sitting position. "Where'd my hat go, do you suppose?" That's always the first damn question I ask people when I find myself in this situations. Screw the bag, screw the cane, screw the wallet?but just tell me where the hell my hat is, would you?

He picked it up off the ground and handed it to me. Then he handed me my bag. Then my cane, which was still folded up.

"I really should get into the habit of using this thing, you'd think, huh?"

"Man, you're really bleedin'," he said. I finally got to my feet, and looked down at myself, palms up, expecting the worse. Ahh, it didn't look so bad. I've certainly seen worse. The palms of both hands were ripped open and bleeding, but the rest of me seemed fine. My pants weren't ripped open the way they were the last time this happened. The ringing in my ears had faded. I didn't think I whacked my head, even though I didn't remember falling.

Hell, I was fine.

"Ehh, it'll be okay," I told the kid?who undoubtedly smelled the beer on my breath by now, given how close he was standing. "Thanks kindly for your help, here."

"Sure, no problem," he said. He looked so damned serious. Why weren't these kids laughing at me? That's what I would've done.

I put the hat on, slipped the bag over my shoulder, slipped the cane back in the bag and continued on my way.

I hadn't taken more than a few steps, though, before I realized that I wasn't quite yet in any condition to do much walking. I took a quick scan for steps to sit on, found none (yeah, sure, now), so I moved over against the nearest building and squatted down, waiting for the waves of nausea to pass and the strength to return to my extremities. Hoo-boy. I bet I was making quite the scene.

After maybe three minutes there, feeling that everything was under control, scanning to make sure I hadn't lost any teeth, and doing what I could to stop my bleeding palms, I stood again. I really should take that fucking cane out of my bag, I remember thinking. Just so they know. But it stayed where it was.

I slid my back up the brick wall until I was standing again, and, once more, eased on down the sidewalk.

This time, however, I found I couldn't walk in a straight line. My head was spinning bad. If I kept this up, I knew I'd faint. Having fainted a couple times there these past months, I knew it was the last thing I wanted to be doing here. So again I veered back toward the buildings?only to find that the buildings had vanished. Now all I had to hold onto was a chainlink fence around a parking lot. It'd have to do. I stuck my fingers through the fence, took as tight a hold as I could muster and lowered myself again into squatting position.

This time, I was the one who was left almost sitting in the middle of the sidewalk.

Yeah, sorry about that, I thought. Can't be helped.

I took a deep breath, then another, trying to get the blood flowing around my brain again. I almost felt like taking a little nap, while hanging there off the fence, but thought better.

A father walked past, holding his young daughter's hand. He gave me wide berth?dragging her nearly into the street with him on their way past. I kept breathing.

Jesus, I'm an idiot.

How old do I have to be before I finally stop falling down and skinning my knees? How long before I stop looking like fucking Les Nessman all the time? With Morgan's help, I'm fine?she gets me around things like "stairs" and "walls" with ease. Left to my own devices, I end up flat on the pavement a couple times a month.

At a little after 5, I tried to stand again. My legs were shaky?shit, all of me was shaking?but I wasn't feeling faint anymore. That was a good thing. As much as I could hope for. Probably just a mild bit of shock.

When I was a kid, I'd go into shock at the drop of a hat. Stub a toe, twist an ankle, there I'd be?teeth chattering, arms numb. It's been awhile.

I took a few tentative steps, figured I could make it if I walked slowly enough and continued on toward John's place, hoping he might have a band-aid or something I could borrow. And maybe a beer.