Elevators are the bane of my existence and I’m not just saying that because I was stuck in one for an hour and a half last Saturday night.
Much like the popular FOX show ’24,’ we’re able to provide a minute-by-minute account of every gripping detail in ‘almost real time,’ which means that the events described here happened only five days ago and have a 37 percent chance of being grossly exaggerated.
I know those of you who can read can’t wait to dive in, so let’s start the show:
11:46 p.m. – I board Elevator #1 from the tenth floor of Offenhauer West, noticing an unusual amount of trash on the floor. ‘It’s OK, I won’t be in here long,’ I tell myself.
11:48 p.m. – I realize that the elevator hasn’t moved an inch because I pressed the ’10’ button. I quickly hit ‘1’ and prepare for the elevator to stop on floor two and pick up a horde of people who have somehow not mastered the art of walking down a single flight of stairs.
11:49 p.m. – The elevator comes to a shuddering halt six inches below the second floor. I soil my pants.
11:50 p.m. – After staring blankly for a minute at the closed doors in front of me, I realize that I am stuck. Thinking quickly, I remember Movie Rule #42: ‘Every elevator has an easily opened escape hatch in the ceiling.’
11:51 p.m. – There is no escape hatch. For the next 30 seconds, I pass through the five traditional stages of grief in rapid succession:
DENIAL: ‘No WAY did I just get stuck in this trash-filled elevator by myself.’
ANGER: ‘What if I’m stuck in here for a week? What am I supposed to eat, huh? If someone else was here with me, I could just cannibalize them, but no, that would only make sense, wouldn’t it?’
BARGAINING: ‘OK, if I absolutely have to, I’ll gnaw off my left arm.’
DEPRESSION: ‘But I always wanted to learn to write with my left hand; thanks to this stupid elevator, my dreams are ruined. RUINED!’
ACCEPTANCE: ‘I guess having a prosthesis would be cool, huh? Chicks dig robot arms.’
11:52 p.m. – I take out my cell phone and begin calling friends to see if they can inform the front desk that the elevators have suddenly gained sentience and turned on their masters.
12:01 p.m. – After calling 11 people without anyone picking up, I come to the conclusion that I have no friends.
12:02 p.m. – I begin to think that I will never escape my metal cage. I realize that eventually I will have to go to the bathroom again, and resolve to do the valiant thing and use the back left corner.
12:04 p.m. – I finally get in contact with my friend at the front desk, who advises me to use the emergency phone: ‘You know, the one in the elevator.’ Yeah, I knew I forgot something. The lady on the other end says it may ‘take a while.’ I briefly consider playing Solitaire but then remember that a) I have no cards, and b) I hate Solitaire.
12:17 p.m. – I am tempted to jab the alarm bell repeatedly to the beat of ‘Jingle Bells,’ but instead hum the hook of Destiny Child’s ‘Survivor’ for the next ten minutes.
12:36 p.m. – The firefighters show up outside. I assure them that my pants are not on fire, and ask how long it would take for their large axes to break through the solid metal door.
12:39 p.m. – One of the firemen asks if ‘the people in there’ are ‘all right.’ I realize I’m talking to myself much too loudly, and urge my personalities to be quieter. We fall silent.
12:47 p.m. – Another fireman reports that the long wait is due to the police, who are trying to find the key to override the elevator. Salsa music begins playing in the hallway and I get the distinct feeling that I am missing out on something.
1:04 p.m. – Apparently the key is buried deep underground in the middle of Lake Erie. Inside of a titanium safe. Or, the police have found a donut shop.
1:11 p.m. – The elevator mysteriously begins working again and drops me off at floor six, confirming my suspicions that elevators are horrible at math.
And that’s it! So let this be a lesson to you: Never get on an elevator unless you absolutely have to and if you do, bring a friend. And an extra pair of underwear.
