That Must Have Been Some House

This morning, I was walking to the library, wearing a backpack that weighed about 25 pounds, wearing earphones and talking on the phone to my father who is now, blessedly 89, when I found myself passing by Mike Bloomberg’s double wide mansion. Suddenly the door to his home opened as one of his staff began taking out trash. I turned, admittedly out of a kind of deep-seated prurient interest, and there it was, a long white hallway off of which there were many rooms, in other words, nothing much really. But then suddenly my heel slipped and I was falling, earphones yanked from my ears, my body pitching downward and to the right in a way that felt slow and controlled even though it was neither. “Are you okay?” said a woman, stopping right beside me, as I reached from the ground for my earphones. And then suddenly I was surrounded by at least four more people, men and women both. “Can we help you up?” “Do you need anything?” “Are you alright?” I was fine. I was sure I was fine, though eager to get back to my father who I imagined might have heard some of the hubbub and must be wondering what the hell was going on. “You are all so kind,” I said. “I am completely fine. Thank you!” And then I got up, put back in my ear phones and found my father still on the line. In brief I told him what had happened. “Mike Bloomberg?” he said. “That must have been some house.”