Mickey Z
Cool Observer
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Love in an elevator
(Here at Storytelling Saturday, we prefer the escalator)
Once upon a time...
Recently, I had reason to be in a Manhattan office building during the morning rush hour. After walking over to the elevators and smartly hitting the button marked with an arrow facing up, I watched as every single person who entered after me pompously pushed the same button...as if their push was the only one that truly counted. Also, despite the fact that another day at their uninteresting jobs was just seconds away, everyone was in a major hurry. Hence, they took it as a personal affront that an empty elevator was not there waiting just for their sorry ass.
This particular day, the elevator hadn’t arrived yet so the poor souls waiting for it did the indoor equivalent of leaning over to “watch” for the subway train: they mindlessly stared at the lighted board that tells us what floor each particular elevator is on. Yep, that’ll really expedite matters. All you need do is crane your neck to gawk at flashing numbers and before you know it, you’ll be jammed into that insignificant little cubicle you call home at least eight hours a day, five days a week, fifty weeks a year (if you’re serendipitous enough to get a two-week vacation).
Another sure thing: Just as the elevator doors are about to close, there’s always someone who forces her- or himself in for fear that he or she might actually have to wait one minute for the next elevator (again, what’s the hurry? It’s not like there’s a goddamned party going on upstairs). Then, once the doors have closed and tin receptacle begins to rouse, the elevator etiquette kicks in.
***To read the full Saturday story, please click on “more” below***
Who else wants to spin a yarn?
The comments section awaits...
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Elevator fun:
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Of course...if I had a flying bike, I might not ever need an elevator.
Saturday story continued:
Here are the rules:
1. No one, I repeat, no one makes eye contact under any circumstances. Human contact is to be avoided at all times, so you must keep your eyes trained on the flashing red light that indicates what floor the elevator is currently on. Eye contact may lead to conversation and that is a no-no in this deadline-oriented, profit-driven city.
2. If the elevator stops at a floor and no one gets on or gets off, it’s time for everyone to get really pissed and complain out loud. How dare some infidel have the balls to slow us down on our way to that all-important job we have, right? The nerve. The audacity. The unmitigated gall. Don’t they realize how important we are?
3. If, by accident, you begin to exit at the wrong floor, rush get back in and glare menacingly at the red light indicator as if it is to blame for your all-too-typical feeble-mindedness. If necessary, smile sheepishly at the person nearest you and immediately divert your eyes right back to the red light.
4. When you’ve reached your floor, bellow the words “getting out” and smash anyone who doesn’t react quickly enough for your liking.
Anyway, while my comrades in this over-sized dumbwaiter proceeded to abide devoutly to those long-held rules, I spent my time formulating a blueprint for survival should the elevator cable suddenly snap. After a few aborted ideas (including a smile of surrender), I settled on this:
As we begin our plummet earthward, I’d quickly climb onto the shoulders of my shocked co-passengers (who would react only with panic and fear that they may get fired if they’re killed in an elevator mishap). Since they will clearly be in a state of paralyzed panic, this should be a snap (pun very much intended and apologized for). Once I’m crouched upon their shoulders and heads, I grab onto the roof of the elevator to hold my weight up and try to gauge the precise moment of impact. This is crucial because letting go too soon would be fatal and too late could result in some horrible injury.
So, just as the car is about to crash into the basement, I’d release my grip. This would probably result in all my doomed co-riders being crushed onto the filthy floor of the elevator and me landing atop their dead bodies, thus cushioning the blow for myself while adding some purpose to their supposedly untimely deaths. Then it would be my turn to check my “look” in the mirror to make sure I’m ready for the Six O’clock News. After all, I’d surely be written up in all the bullshit tabloids as some kind of “miracle elevator man” and everyone in the goddamned world would want to interview me and hear my “amazing” story. Imagine the New York Post headline possibilities:
GOING DOWN?
FLOORED!
THE CABLE GUY IS HERE!
Then, perhaps, with all the ensuing hoopla, I could finally write a book that would sell.
Copyright © 2005-2007 Mickey Z.
