Three Uneven Steps - A Short Story

I shouldered my backpack, picked up my roller, and carefully eased down the three uneven steps into the restaurant. At the counter I ordered a double espresso and a croissant. I thought about ordering in Spanish. But I was too tired. Too beat from the flight. Everyone speaks English anyway, even a server in a taberna on the outskirts of Madrid. I did say espresso doble. That’s as far as I got.

I toyed with the idea of sitting outside—stay out of people’s way—but navigating back up the uneven steps with a suitcase, a backpack, and a tray with a teetering tall glass of coffee—how they serve it here—convinced me to find an alternative. There were plenty of empty tables tucked in an enclave in the back. I maneuvered around two columns, found a spot in the corner, slid the backpack on the roller, and sat down.

I sipped the coffee as I perused my surroundings. Mostly locals, regulars, familiarly talking to the servers. An MTV-like channel blared music from the screen above my head. First Timberlake. Now Eminem, angry and irate at someone, something, life.

The place started to fill up. A young woman took a table to my right. She was alone, and had a scholarly, fine look: thick glasses over pale blue eyes, cropped auburn hair with bangs covering her forehead. She wore a black sweater with an imperceptible stain on the belly. Her left arm was in a sling. I minded my own business, buttering the already split croissant, layering on the strawberry jam from the disposable plastic container, taking one bite, then another. I couldn’t complain. The coffee tasted good, not bitter. The croissant wasn’t fresh, but it wasn’t made in America, which meant it was better than what I was used to back home.

Home. I checked the latest updates on my phone. No, not now. I’d vowed not to check the news. Until it was over. The polls were shit anyway; they’d been wrong for the last decade, giving us false hope and fueling the opposition’s rage. Illogical, stultifying chaos. I put the phone down. In the old days I would have gone outside and smoked a cigarette. Or two. I’m intolerant of chaos. A fifty-five-year-old intolerant man.

My gaze lifted through the windows. My mind wandered. How long might I stay in Spain? As I sat mulling this over—fantasizing really—I noticed an elderly couple approach the entrance. The old man shuffled to the transparent glass front door. The old woman limped on one crutch behind him. They were well into their eighties. The old man opened the door, approached the precipice of the first step, where he turned and grabbed the handrail with both hands. The old woman, holding back the door, muttered words of encouragement. Or so they seemed—they weren’t new to these steps. Then haltingly, clutching the railing, he side-stepped each sneaker-clad foot down the friable steps—they seemed as old and fragile as the man. When he reached the bottom, he let go of the railing, took off his oversized sunglasses, and stood straight. He had a proud look on his face, as if the feat of traversing the steps had been equivalent to slaying a bull in the plaza de toros. He glanced over his shoulder at the old woman. She motioned for him to go and order. He slowly eased into the queue behind a young couple and waited.

Now it was the old woman’s turn. She wobbled in front of the door, right hand on her crutch, unsure whether to grab the railing or the door handle with her left. She stared down at the first step, hesitating, as if she was deciding which foot to place onto it. I noted her attire. She was elegant, with a blue wool beret cocked to the left covering her flowing gray hair, her ears adorned with silver earrings with encrusted diamonds, and glasses with clear, wide frames and tinted lenses. A colorful foulard was wrapped around her neck, held firm by a gold clasp. A camel-hair coat covered her thin frame, the coat not too long lest it get in the way of her ambulatory functions.

She clenched the crutch, grasped the railing, and placed her right foot on the first step. Her left foot followed. As she lifted her right foot to take the next step, her body weaved uneasily, and she put the foot back down. The old man stared straight ahead, oblivious to her challenges. No one offered to help her, probably because the look on her face now conveyed confidence. She could do it herself. She’d figure it out. She always had. And with that, after a deep breath, she stepped down the remaining two steps quite quickly, without teetering. At the bottom a flash of triumph, fleeting, before she was on her way again, ambling around the people waiting in line, to the back dining enclave as if wading against onrushing floodwaters.

Her eyes were on the empty table in front of me. She smirked at my stacked backpack and suitcase, which I suddenly realized were blocking her way—I hadn’t noticed. I eased the contraption over. Gracias, she said under her breath, without looking at me. She swung, almost pivoted, on her crutch and turned toward the empty table. She hesitated for a minute. The scholarly young woman jumped up and asked if she needed help (I assumed). The old woman smiled and nodded. No, thank you, she intimated.

As the young woman sat back down, the old woman leaned the crutch against the supporting column, and then propped herself on the table with her two hands with what seemed to be all her strength. She carefully leaned over and adjusted the low stool to be right underneath her so that when, after a few trembling seconds and an audible sigh she fell heavily down to sit, it was there to catch her. Mission accomplished.

I finished my croissant and contemplated whether to wait in the restaurant for another two hours—my Airbnb apartment wouldn’t be available until then—or go for a walk. It was a crisp fall day, slightly overcast. There was a nice park nearby.

Then I heard a loud crash. The patrons gasped in unison. The young woman again shot up from her table, this time rushing to the counter. The old man had fallen, backwards, dropping the coffee-laden tray. He hit the ground hard, but somehow managed to not smack his head against the wall. His hat flew across the room. Shattered coffee cups, plates, and utensils were strewn across the floor.

The old woman, even with her field of vision obscured by the supporting column, knew it was her husband that had fallen. Dios mío, she said in a frail voice, almost pleading. She forced herself to stand.  Dios mío, she repeated feebly. The young woman, seeing the old woman stand, ran back to embrace her with her good arm, offering words of reassurance, I presumed. She helped the old woman back down on her stool. Three men had by now surrounded the old man. They gently raised him to his feet, supported him as they walked him over to his table, and sat him down.

He sat across from his wife, sighed achingly, took a few deep breaths, and then smiled at her, a gentle smile, a smile that conveyed the reality that at their age there wasn’t much else they could do, that there would be times like these when one of them would fall, or incur some sort of mishap. Maybe a tragedy. But they must live their life, they’ve made it this far, and they were still together, he seemed to convey. He reached over and held her trembling hands.

I felt helpless. I hadn’t moved. What was I to do? I don’t speak the language. Let the swarm of locals take care of the situation. I’ll just get in the way.  Why does my life always come down to these moments of immobility and pathetic excuses?

That’s when the young woman turned and scowled at me. No words necessary— you should have helped them down the stairs, you should have helped her with the stool, you should have helped him with the tray. Why didn’t you help anybody?

I placed my empty glass on the plate. I picked up a shard of a shattered coffee cup next to my feet and placed it on the tray. I stood with the tray in hand, grabbed the roller, and walked by the server who was busy sweeping up the broken glass and mopping up the spilled coffee. I felt the eyes of the young woman on me. I stepped over remnants of a plate, eased the roller around the rest of the debris, and as I moved toward the entrance scanned the room for a place to put the tray. Nothing.

There’s nothing I could have done.

It was none of my business.

I dropped the tray onto the nearest table. Then I shouldered my backpack, picked up my roller, climbed the three uneven steps out of the restaurant, and walked to the park.