The escalator from the parking garage soared upward into what I’m fairly certain was airspace restricted to weather balloons. But it wasn’t the height that scared me. The scary part was that this particular escalator wasn’t escalating. It had one job. One.

Granted, the mall wouldn’t open for another hour, but still. I looked around for a security guard who might show pity to the man hauling two small cases in one hand, a medium-sized case in the other, and an overstuffed backpack clinging for dear life to one shoulder that had already sent in its resignation.

We were setting up interviews in a bookstore, trying to capture as much footage as possible before customers started trickling in. Time was already tight, and to make matters worse, we’d misplaced a piece of essential gear (cue the timeless exchange: “You thought I had it? I thought YOU had it.”) So off I went, sprinting – well, lumbering briskly – back to the office, a short drive and quick jog to retrieve it.

That’s how I found myself standing at the foot of a frozen escalator, staring up at my own personal K2. I suspected other routes existed, but surely each had its own risks, and I had no time for an expeditionary council meeting. So I started up.

Halfway to the summit, I stopped to catch my breath, grateful no one was around to witness my stop at the mid-escalator base camp. Someone might have thought I was an elderly gentleman unsure about how non-escalating escalators work. (“They’re like stairs now, sir. … Is there someone we can call for you?”)

But they weren’t like stairs, I found as I pressed on. They have an odd angle and height. Non-escalating escalators could learn a lot from their stationary ancestors. My legs began to wobble just as the escalator steps flattened for that seamless step-off they usually provide – a thoughtful touch, unless your muscles have begun to walk off the job and draft a letter of complaint. I pitched forward (fortunately the best direction in which to fall under these circumstances) and and found myself sprawled just short of the escalator landing zone.

No one saw me, which I first considered a blessing until I realized it also meant no one could help me out of my tangle of cases. I gathered myself, stashed some gear aside a nearby bench, went back for the rest and returned to assess the damage: scraped knees, gouged knuckles, skinned shins, and a meeting of the bruise committee just being called to order. Though there was no time to sit down, I took five minutes anyway – not like there were many other options – before resuming the mission. I did happen to look down the escalator and give thanks that I fell the better of the two directions. This could have been my last post. Or I guess technically the one after my last post, because who would have written this? Whatever the case, that’s when the security guard strolled around the corner. Impeccable comic timing. Maybe he could have written it.

Fall Two (spoiler in subhead alert)

Another day, another shoot. This one in a large TV studio. A little crunched for time (SOP), but were just shooting one person that day, so made a note to steer the talent away a couple of cables rather than taping them down. We wrap the shoot without incident, and then we start striking the set. The enigmatic health thing that’s been ailing me demands immediate stoppage of all vertical activity. The request is denied, because we’re a small team and all for one, one for all and all that. 

Naturally, an untaped cord reaches up and catches my feeble gait sending me flying. Fortunately, the fall sets me up for a nice roll, which I manage to continue and use the momentum to pop up on my feet. My co-workers kindly commend me for my surprising deftness, which shocked me as much as anyone. I chalk it up to survival instinct. Truth is, if I hadn’t rolled through, I might still be lying there today.

A Fine Whine

(In which I summon up at least one positive takeaway, however long the reach, that keeps a thing from being just a whiney whine.)

Ninth grade (don’t remind me). Waiting for history class to begin. Another student, Ricky Rollo, a funny guy with Jackson Browne hair probably before Jackson Browne had it, looks outside and says a thing that might be the sole thing I remember from those troubled times. “I never knew snow could fall up.” I look out the windows and, sure enough, big snow flakes are gently swirling up I suppose due to a weird vortex as it hits the L-shaped building combined with the direction of wind and atmosphere. Oh, and probably mixed in with magic.

I’ll never know what made that line stick in my head in all those four score and seven years ago since other major historical facts like the number of years between the Declaration of Independence and the Gettysburg Address make me nobody’s lifeline buddy. But it made enough of an impression that I’ve been able to use it maybe a half dozen times when weather and architecture made for the perfect storm to make snow fall up. (I silently credit Ricky’s name in my life’s show notes.) 

And here’s what I’ve learned: sometimes you just need to sit there for a bit and let the sting fade when you have a creative stumble before resuming your journey. And other times, you get right back up, using the momentum to carry you forward like this stumble was all part of the plan for your creative journey.

The cool thing about attempting creative works in Life’s Act III is that expectations are usually lower than they have been since you were a newbie in Act I trying on different forms of media. Act II’ers may find their work getting overly scrutinized by the “don’t quit your day job” bunch.

In the creative life, Act III included, we’ll do all kinds of falling. We’ll have projects that stall halfway up the escalator, and others where you trip but manage to roll through to your feet. Regardless, the important thing is to remember the words of St. Rollo – to keep falling up – knees scuffed, pride dented, but ever up.

Either way, there should be ice cream involved.