IN MY OFFICE BUILDING, I pass one of the TV People on the stairs. If I’m not mistaken, it’s one of the three who brought the TV the day before—probably the one who first opened the door, who didn’t actually carry the set. Their singular lack of distinguishing features makes it next to impossible to tell them apart, so I can’t swear to it, but I’d say I’m eight to nine out of ten on the mark. He’s wearing the same blue jacket he had on the previous day, and he’s not carrying anything in his hands. He’s merely walking down the stairs. I’m walking up. I dislike elevators, so I generally take the stairs. My office is on the ninth floor, so this is no mean feat. When I’m in a rush, I get all sweaty by the time I reach the top. Even so, getting sweaty has got to be better than taking the elevator, as far as I’m concerned. Everyone jokes about it: doesn’t own a TV or a VCR, doesn’t take elevators, must be a modern-day Luddite. Maybe a childhood trauma leading to arrested development. Let them think what they like. They’re the ones who are screwed up, if you ask me.

In any case, there I am, climbing the stairs as always; I’m the only one on the stairs—almost nobody else uses them—when between the fourth and fifth floors I pass one of the TV People coming down. It happens so suddenly I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should say something?

But I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say, and he’s unapproachable. He leaves no opening; he descends the stairs so functionally, at one set tempo, with such regulated precision. Plus, he utterly ignores my presence, same as the day before. I don’t even enter his field of vision. He slips by before I can think what to do. In that instant, the field of gravity warps.