JustMattHenry.com: gossip, life and humor

Matthew W. Henry

April 21, 2003

Georgetown.  Exxon Station on M Street.  The Exorcist Steps.  Afraid of heights?  Welcome to hell. 

            Somewhere in the fuzzy realm of cinematic trivia, between suburban myth and cold concrete fact, lies the truth about those stairs; those stairs that may or may not have been used in the classic film The Exorcist; those stairs, that I have always known about but never dared get to know; those stairs, that could perhaps, on this Tuesday afternoon, lead to my untimely death.  Today, with all but a little fear cast aside, I will climb them. 

            Growing up in suburban Washington, upon receiving one’s driver’s license, there were three destinations that had to be reached immediately:  Springfield Mall, just outside the Beltway, the Krispy Kreme doughnut shop on Route 1 in Alexandria and the so-called Exorcist Steps just on the other side of the Potomac River.  It was a right of passage, an Underground Railroad from the monotony of middle class teenage boredom to the supposed fast lanes of a bustling city lifestyle.  I have never made it past the doughnuts.  My ten year reunion is fast approaching, and I feel I am the only one to not make it past the doughnuts.  I’m comfortable with doughnuts.  I am not comfortable with heights. 

            Yet, here I am, like some programmed dummy, a lemming marching towards that great fall.  The preview of summer sun toasts my shoulders as I approach that gas station.  I turn the corner and am enveloped by the cold shadow of the large factory like building next to the gas station.  Aha!  Foreshadowing.  Literally.  A sense of dread, doom, despair and darkness.  No, just shade from the sun.  I see the stairs in front of me, climbing up, up, up to the blue sky above.  I can’t see what’s at the top.  My stomach turns, knotting like an overzealous boy scout trying to win a merit badge.   I feel an anxiety attack coming on, the same feeling I get whenever I try to learn to drive stick, or whenever I feel I’m running late.  I feel like I’m about to let someone down.  I’m not going to be able to do this.   This isn’t me; I don’t do heights.  I don’t sleep in the top bunk, I don’t take the metro because those escalators are unnecessarily steep and long, and I don’t mind so much having the aisle seat on an airplane.

            I grip the painted black railing and place one foot ever so gently on the first stone step.  The factory wall to my right mocks me with bloody red bricks as does the tombstone colored rock wall on my left.  Must they be so close?  My other foot lifts off the oily asphalt of the gas station parking lot and onto the second step.  And breathe.  I smell rust and iron, city smells, garbage, and gasoline.  The stairs above me are surprisingly well lit, not at all damp, mossy and cold as all horror movie stair cases should be.

            I’m walking now or climbing, rather.  Don’t look up, don’t look down; eyes on my feet.  Grip the railing, stupid.  No, with two hands.  I have no idea how high I’ve climbed or how much further I must go.  I’m breathing harder now, but that could just be me hyperventilating and not really any kind of aerobic activity.  I just have to focus on each step, one right after the other.  I’m so focused on my feet and so focused on not falling backwards that I only now realize how hunched over and low to the steps I am.  I’m practically crawling up them now, and I’m so amused at how I must look, that I don’t notice the eighty year old woman who breezes by me like a professional stair stepper, offering these words of encouragement:  “It’s just a cramp, dear.  Walk it off when you get to the top.” 

            “No, you don’t understand—“ I mumble, but she’s gone.  Up over the top to God knows where.

            Suddenly, my hand is no longer holding onto the railing, and my heart dances a little panic dance.  Oh, my God, I’m about to fall.  I look up to find that I’m at the top, and I see my go-get-em granny friend about two blocks ahead of me in her pastel pink nylon jogging suit.  To my right is the roof of the old factory, with some sort of terraced common area on top.  To my left, a quiet green yard spotted with blossoming shrubs and bright tulips, surrounded by a classic wrought iron fence, reminds me of an old English garden.   Oh, joy!  These stairs have magically transported me to England!  How smashing!  Or perhaps I did fall, my body lying lifeless on the greasy oil slick below, and this is heaven!  A fresh garden with beautiful flowers. 

            I feel really dizzy.  Perhaps it’s the high altitude. The rumble of a car and the laughter of a handful of Georgetown University students tap me on the shoulder and welcome me back to reality.  I turn back towards the stairs and look the way I had climbed.  I can see the Key Bridge and a rowing team as they zip up the Potomac.   Across the way, the towers of Roslyn stand majestic and drab all at once, reflecting how I now feel.  

            I’ve done nothing special; I climbed some stairs without passing out.   A little sense of pride, however, replaces that anxiety I had before.  Perhaps next time, I will climb these steps at night…with a friend…and a concealed weapon, just in case.  Now, I am off to get some ice cream at Thomas Sweet.  It’s getting hot outside.