Friday, September 24, 2010

22nd floor Stuck in the Elevator with You September 24, 2010

22nd Floor
We still are not moving.  He is talking now.  He walks over to the console. 
“I’ll just call maintenance.”  He says. 
If I were not so occupied with my bladder and the offensive camera thing, I would be able to appreciate his lovely voice.  However, I am eyeing my exercise bottle.  The Camera is watching.  I move over to the camera and wave my hands. 
“Hey, anybody there?” 
He puts the phone back down.  “It’s not working.”
Now we are both reaching in our pockets for our cell phones.  No signal.  What the heck?
We look at each other.  We speak in unison, “I guess we’re stuck.”
We laugh. 
Ha. Ha. Real funny.  I am going to make a spectacle of myself and people will be playing me on YouTube, courtesy of the elevator camera.
“You don’t have to look so miserable.  I’m sure someone will be here in a minute or two.” He says.
“Oh, I know. Someone will be here in a little bit, “  I say.
He can look so calm.  He will not be featured on Tosh.0.  Maybe Tosh will let me redeem myself. 
The seconds tick by.  We shuffle our feet.  He’s the first to speak. 
“I guess that’s what we get for using the service elevator,”    he says.
There’s a jerk and we begin to move.  And move quickly. 
22nd, 21st, 20th Floor
Now we are both against the wall holding on for dear life.  We look at each other straight in the eyes.  This is no time for elevator etiquette.   Fear is beginning to register.
19th floor
18th floor
17th floor
16th floor
It’s not true about your life running in front of your eyes before you die.  What I see is my death,  lying there on the floor of a dirty elevator.  At least, I will get to pee.   
15th floor
The elevator jerks to a stop.  We are flung together and for a second we just stand there, afraid to move.
14th floor
It’s slower now.  We are clutching each other.  I cannot believe this. 
13th floor
We stop again.  We awkwardly disentangle.   I have forgotten about dying.

Tips for Anybody.
Always, always wear nice underwear.  Your mother was right.  You go out in the world with last year’s rags and you will pay.   My mother’s advice was much more drastic.  She always had us visualizing a car wreck.  The rescue squad lights blipping in the night, my half conscious body lying on the road.  Somewhere in the reaches of my subconscious a voice is talking. 
It’s him. We all know one.  The neighbor down the street that volunteers for the rescue squad and hangs around the fire department.   He’s talking to his buddy.  “Did you see her underwear, Jesus.”  It’s been a long time since anybody’s tapped that thing. ”  Did I mention that my neighbor was a jerk.
This could easily have been avoided.
Now you are thinking,  “Viola, haven’t you seen the price of underwear these days?”  And I am thinking, “Just give up those little extras.”    “Have you calculated what those Café Lattes cost a month?”  I’m just saying, “Priorities”.

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