the first step

bumper harry stands at the top of the escalator. it's a tall escalator, taller for being the first escalator ever.

the photographers are there, the politicians are there, the crowd is expectant, the ribbon has been cut -- with the grand ceremonial scissors.

bumper harry looks down, the dark depth of the tube tunnels staring back. the metal teeth grinding their way down into the earth.

he remembers how he lost his leg, how much it hurt, how much he missed it. he thinks about his remaining leg, how much he wants to keep it.

he knows he's here to make history, to show the world that safe is safe. he thinks again of his legs, the lost one and the remaining one. he doesn't want to lose it. he thinks of history. he looks at the photographers, the politicians, the expectant crowd. he reminds himself of the big fat cheque and of the wife and kids at home. he thinks of history again.

then, bumper harry says to himself: fuck it, and with one wooden step, he goes onto the escalator and as the steps move him down into the void, in one instant he becomes: a legend of safety, a richer man, and the first automated commuter in london. the first of many who are not completly whole.