U Transit Point

It was supposed to have been an eight-hour strut around a small
transit platform. Unload one truck. Store the stuff for a few hours,
maybe overnight. Another truck arrives. Load it up. Off it goes.
Second-shift work. Almost teamster wages. Great money for a college kid
in 1971. No sweat, I'd thought. Bring on the boxes. Bring on the
crates. I'm in shape. I play squash. Let's roll!

I lasted one day.

At the stroke of eleven, hobbled and bent, holding the pen like an ice
pick, I bravely carved my name into a time card. The look of shock and
suspicion on the office clerk's face changed to one of sympathy as he
noticed my inability to stand without leaning on the counter with my
elbows. The sound of dangling feet knocking against the baseboard had
no doubt given me away.

I hesitated, afraid that letting go of the counter would land me on the
floor. After several deep breaths, I crept towards the exit, inching
forward, out the door, down the stairs, and into the night.

I felt the warmth of glowing smirks radiating from behind as I babooned
my way to the parking lot. It was not a graceful exit. I'd aged 55
years in eight hours. They knew I would not be back, and so did
I.

I leaned against the car, barely able to hold the keys. Opening the
door and crawling into the driver's seat took a seeming eternity,
punctuated by several jocular offers of assistance issuing from the
general direction of the aforementioned glowing smirks. I declined all
offers.

Behind the wheel at last! I thought about sleeping in the car
overnight, right there in the parking lot. It was more than a passing
thought. My hands were frozen in grip formation, unable to hold the
steering wheel properly, and still shaking. Reluctantly, I opted for
home.

I drove slowly, afraid that my legs would be too weak to push the brake
pedal, hoping to get all the lights green. Miraculously, I did. It was
midnight by the time I pulled into the driveway. I even managed to
avoid crashing into the garage door.

Mom came to the door and started laughing as I crept away from the car.
"Why are you walking like that?" she asked, stifling a guffaw. "And why
don't you put the car in the garage?"

I said nothing. The car will just have to sleep outdoors with the cat
tonight, I thought. Motioning her aside, I aimed for the kitchen and
executed a wobbly two-cheek landing on the nearest chair. Using the
kitchen table for support, I wondered if I would ever walk properly
upright again.

"Do you want a sandwich and something to drink?" she asked, still
laughing.

"OK," I squeaked, like a balloon extruding the Final Sigh.

I don't remember much after that, just the sounds of bustling and more
laughter, and some vague sense of a sandwich gathering form before my
eyes. I crawled upstairs to my room and collapsed into bed.

There was no problem sleeping that night.