Sliding through chutes

Nina’s. Thinking about how much of my life is sliding through chutes, slipping into slots. Passages, wormholes. Zones of comfort that I go toward again and again. The Y, the sauna at the Y: open the door, no one in there; or Bill, Merl, the jazz guitar art teacher. The open swim lane. Nina’s was.

Now the shelf of games is gone, the chess club on Thursdays erased from the front chalkboard. New Agey muzak. Liberty is wearing a sash.
Safety in the familiar. A while back, there was an airline accident here at the airport. A DC-9 lost its brakes and ran into an Airbus. Sounds comical, except that the DC-9’s front rupture a fuel tank in the wing of the Airbus, and jet fuel was pouring into the cockpit of the DC-9.
What to do? asked the passengers. Attendant: “Everybody get down!” What good will that do? asked the passengers. So, people got up to leave the plane–evacuate. But people took the time to get their luggage out of the overheads, which delayed things.
The other day, a Sunday morning, I took Stella for a walk, a long walk. We went all the way down to Lexington because I wanted to see the tunnel of lilacs. On the way back, I had to pee. Now, Stella and can tiddle pretty much anywhere she wants too. I could get a ticket. And, I could no longer duck into a coffeeshop, having a dog.
I made it to within two blocks of home.