Elevator

Sometimes I think of life is one giant game of Tetris.

Slowly opening my eyes from sleep, I begin to think of my upcoming day, a day like most all the others. The drive to work, the fight for the parking space. The Elevator.

Every morning, ten bodies load themselves into a vertical carriage, fitting themselves into the cubicle, politely trying to maintain each other’s personal space.  Most are familiar faces on our stop-and-go ride up to the 5th floor, my home for the day, yet my business takes me up and down that elevator several times a day.

Drying off from my shower, combing my hair, and finishing by slipping into my smooth Italian leather loafers, I remember my client's revised manuscript is due in five days.  As an editor, I rarely get to meet my clients until I have finished polishing up their novels.

Pressing the ignition fob, my BMW gives up its familiar throaty growl, and I note with some annoyance that rain is ruining its new car shine as I back out of the garage.

Pulling into the lot, I try to avoid puddles. Nevertheless, my expensive footwear leaves a trail of water across the polished terrazzo floor.

I press the "up" button on the elevator and wait, expecting the usual crush of people hurrying to get to their offices on time. The mirrored doors open. I find myself face-to-face with a man about my age, in deep meditation. Shrugging it off, I figure there are lots of strange people in the world, or maybe I just need my coffee. Yet, I have never seen a well-dressed adult striking such a disciplined pose in the middle of an elevator. I squeeze myself into the corner of the car, staring at the flashing numbers as we ascend. The two minutes it takes to arrive at the 5th floor feels like an eternity, as I try my best to avoid the awkward situation, way too close to my own personal space.

When the doors roll open, I head toward my office, trying mightily to erase the image in my mind during that short ride.  Successfully accomplishing that mental feat, I spend the day behind my desk, re-wording sentences, deleting paragraphs, and sometimes discarding pages at a time. I am man- handling somebody's baby, but that is my job, and I am paid well to do it.

The day passes pleasantly enough, with the late afternoon sun peeking through the clouds as I climb into my sports car on my way home.

A quick dinner, a few sit-com’s on TV, and then sleep. Or at least an attempt. The curse of insomnia is that you are never really asleep, yet never quite awake. I spend the rest of the night working on the book I've been writing, but lately, the backspace button has become my closest friend. I Might as well stick to crafting other peoples' work, as editing is what I do best. I switch off the computer and drift into a restless sleep.

Ding, ding

Another day, another trip on the elevator to the 5th floor. I stopped to treat myself to my favorite Columbian dark brew at Wawa, so I am ready to face the day. Like every other day, I pressed the "up" button and wait. Creature of habit that I am, I take my place in the corner of the car, checking my phone as I do so. I am distracted by a scraping noise to my left, and see the same guy who was doing yoga yesterday. He is holding his phone’s camera to his face as he is shaving, to make sure he gets every whisker. He wipes the shaving cream residue from his face, and as I step onto my floor, he cheerily wishes me a nice day. Great. Where did this kook come from, and where is he going in my elevator?

I hurry to my office, realizing the manuscript I am editing is due to my client today.

Hoping to get most of the last chapter done before lunch, I put the elevator incident out of my mind. Confident that after a quick lunch, I can complete the work by 5 pm, when the client meets with me. I lost myself in his words.

Back at the elevator, I press the "down" button, absently wondering why it is called an elevator when it doesn’t always elevate people. Sometimes it... Well, operates the opposite of elevation.  Amused as I am, I’m startled to see the same man I encountered twice before on this particular elevator. I could’ve waited for the next car, but I’m in a hurry to get lunch and get back to the office. Why me? Why do I have to run into this nut job? As usual I take my place in the elevator's corner, and the man turned toward me. At that moment, I consider hitting the emergency button, but that seems ridiculous. The man is certainly not a threat.

"I have new socks on today."

I nod, not in the mood to engage in conversation with this man, who I am beginning to think is a bit mentally unbalanced.

He opened his briefcase and whispered into it:

"Got enough air in there?"

"Excuse me?  Is there something in your bag?"

"Oh, I wasn't talking to you. Why would there be something in my bag?"

At this point, my mind is screaming and I don’t care if I’m rude. I just want to get out of that space.

I burst through the doors as the elevator opens, and walk briskly to the deli to pick up my food order. Nervously, I head back to my building, wondering if the man has left, or if he is still lurking somewhere behind the marble columns in the lobby.

Although I consider taking the stairs, an uneventful trip in the elevator deposits me on my floor. I have to finish that manuscript, and a five- floor climb eats up precious time. Finally finished with the work, I sit back in my swivel chair and with a sigh of satisfaction, prop my feet on my desk.

As my office clock strikes 5, I hear a knock.

“Come in.”

I adjust my tie and fold my hands, trying to look as professional as I can.

You’ve got to be kidding me. It’s the elevator man.

“What are you doing here? I’m waiting for a very important client.”

“I’m here for my book.”

“Your book?”

“Yes, Somethings Gotta Give.”

“That’s YOUR book?”

“Yes.”

I’m not only annoyed at this point but confused because this book is extremely well written. I’m trying to be serious and present myself well, but he is clearly enjoying himself at my expense.

“It’s really good you know, your book.”

“Thanks.”

“So aside from the book, I have a question.”

Should I ask him? I mean it’s really none of my business what his intentions were in that elevator or why he was even in it in the first place, but my curiosity is driving me crazy.

“Go for it.”

“How come you did all those things, back in the elevator?”

“50 fun things to do in an elevator.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s a book I’m working on, called 50 Fun Things to do in an Elevator. I wanted to do my research before I started my outline.”             

A dozen disturbing images flashed through my mind flash through my mind in a nanosecond.

“Do me a favor, pal, find another editor for that one.”

Author's Note

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