The Hungry Escalator

The young lady stepped onto the escalator at Berlin’s Ostbahnhof, humming hapily as she rode down toward the subway.

She was wearing a leather jacket over her T-shirt, loose-fitting, stylish pants, and shoes that were far more uncomfortable than they looked.

Halfway down, she felt a strange tug.

She looked down.

Her pant leg was caught.

“Oh no.”

She tried to pull free.

The escalator disagreed.

There was another tug. Then a soft rrrrip.

She grabbed the handrail with one hand and her waistband with the other.

Too late.

The machine continued its journey smoothly while her pants gradually disappeared between the moving steps. The sharp metal teeth munched gleefully on the delicate fabric.

“Excuse me!” she called out. “Could you please help me?”

A man behind her looked at the disappearing garment. Then his eyes wandered up her long legs to her bare butt.

“I think it’s hungry,” he smirked.

By the time she reached the bottom, the escalator had apparently consumed the entire pair.

She jumped off, clinging to what was left of her dignity.

A station employee hurried over.

“Is everything all right?”

She pointed accusingly at the escalator.

“That thing ate my pants!”

The employee looked down at the machine.

“It happens sometimes.”

She stared at him.

“Sometimes?”

He shrugged.

“It usually prefers shoelaces. But,” he pointed, “you don’t have any. See?”