I’m boring into the stone steps with the spot of my feet back of the big toe. My calves try to absorb the shock. My clunky shoes and my feet aren’t having it. I’m to where the two stair flights meet up, near their emergence into the hilly street. I’m nearly out of the woods.
Wait. The advancing stacks of stone get uninteresting for a second. There is a dude bent toward the stairs escorting a video camera on a stick up them. He’s traveling slow and smooth as if his project is weighty. He’s white, and he’s wearing a white, striped collared t-shirt. He’s like my age. He looks like an amalgamation of twenty people from my high school.
I toe past him in my goofy glasses, my backpack’s straps fluttering behind me like tails. He turns his head toward me and raises his eyebrows in silent greeting, his hands ever attentive to the camera. I do so back. Then I’m past him, not wanting to stop and satisfy my curiosity and ruin his enterprise.
In the steps before the street, I have time to think and wonder. Wow, is what I think. My high socks and hairy legs are going to be on whatever film that dude was making. I’m exhilarated. There’s something about being captured on film. I’m a star.