The old man got down on all fours and began to Crawl. This time he had lasted upright almost seventy feet from the entrance to the apartment building before his juices ran out and he had to do it. That was about twenty to fifteen feet less than yesterday.
He wasn't counting, of course. Just watching for landmarks. For example, he'd gotten past that gray dumpster ahead, and had made it nearly to the tree on the corner, only a block and a half away from the bus stop.
His knee-pads were good strong rayon, probably the best he could buy for twenty dollars. He'd mail-ordered them from an online catalog at Work two weeks ago, to replace the old worn-out sets that had lasted him almost six months. And the new set had arrived just in time, together with the reinforced workman gloves and elbow-pads. Just in time to boost him, now that he was actually showing the first signs of daily difficulty.
Actually it's been over ten months that he'd been Crawling. Sandra had seen it coming way before he had, just as she had known she'd be bedridden starting last spring. It was in the stoop of his back, she'd said, in the asthmatic short breath every time he'd make it up the stairs, and the fact that his lower legs were stiff and numb every night, and she had to rub them back to life for half an hour before sleep.
Of course, everyone's symptoms were different. Everyone had different medical reasons for Crawling. And after all, he was seventy-six, a time when over 60 percent of the population started to Crawl. Many people started as young as sixty. And
Sandra never even Crawled at all; she just skipped it altogether to become permanently confined to a bed.
"Hey, Crawler, watch it!" someone said. The old man continued Crawling without turning his head, but edged closer to the rightmost edge of the sidewalk. He knew better than to get in the way of Walkers, or those occasional Paddlers.
Paddlers were Crawlers that had somehow adapted skateboards to fit knee-pads, and rolled to the bus stop. Paddlers were dangerous, often losing control of the boards and rolling into traffic and ending up in accidents, so that not many lasted. He knew what risks it involved, but he often envied them nevertheless, envied their much improved ease of movement.
And then there were the fortunate few, the elite Wheelers. They had been the ones whose families had received fed or state wheelchairs before the Senior Reform Act, the complete abolition of fed and state welfare aid in the past century. Or they had been lucky enough to have enough money to pay for their own. Wheelchairs had been family heirlooms handed down to the children, especially since the post Senior Reform amendments also denied driver licenses to those over fifty-five.
The old man paused at the end of the block, near the tree, and lay down on his stomach to rest, taking deep breaths that sucked in air. His temples pounded from the strain, and his chest hurt acutely.
"Morning, Nelson," said the old woman who was lying at the tree, gasping heavily, and forcing a thin smile on her withered lips. Her cap had come askew, and her heavy gloves, sweats and knee pads were covered with soggy dew-soaked street grime.
"Morning, Jane," he replied, after catching his breath, and then thought of asking how she was, and how was the family and Richard, but decided that would be too much energy wasted. So, he simply nodded, then lay down with his cheek in the dirt. He closed his eyes.
As if she had read his mind, the old woman also turned back and ignored him. Then, a couple of minutes later, she glanced at her watch, and then with lots of weak infirm moans and other noise, gathered herself up and began to Crawl, past him, onto the curb. There, she pressed the Crawler floor-level pedestrian button on the floor of the post that controlled traffic signals. Having requested the extended Crawler "Walk" signal, she remained on her knees, poised for movement like a panting dog, as she waited for the light to change.
The old man got up on his elbows, and looked at his own watch. Six-thirty-three.
He had exactly twenty-seven minutes to make it to the bus stop to catch the seven am bus. The seven-fifteen was too late. It would make him late for his eight am shift. The bus arrived downtown at seven-forty-five, and he needed at least fifteen minutes to Crawl to the building, to make it to the sixth floor elevator, and to finally Plug himself In.... He'd measured it precisely within one or two minutes difference.
And he had to clock in exactly at eight to get the full credit for the whole day's Work shift, On-Time Status, and no later than eight-oh-five to get Near-On-Time.
And today, of all days, he had to make On-Time to get the full two-week paycheck for the month. Today was the one day he woke up late, couldn't get himself out of bed. Such a simple thing, and yet, it was harder and harder to get out of bed every morning. Besides, a chronic insomniac, he could never get up on time, not even back when he was young and had the energy.
He just couldn't.
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