The Elevator Room
A story in 666 words
Every day at 1:30 p.m., like clockwork, I hear it: The security guard’s hand on the other side of the door pulls at the knob, followed by his steps shuffling away.
I assumed today would be no different, sitting on the floor of my Elevator Room and gathering the last crumbs that fell from the potato chip bag I found in the dumpster outside. With the half-eaten street meat sausage and some swigs of black Sambuca I used my panhandling earnings on, this will pass for a late lunch.
The doorknob sound should be as familiar as the striking of a clock but it always sends a chill down my spine. I clutch the smooth part of my shard of glass just in case.
Algernon stares at me hungrily. My little furry friend keeps me company in this cold chamber of metal, cables and electrical cords. I named him after my son who was named after that other famous Algernon, against my wife’s wishes.
Those wishes lay dead and buried these days. Maybe our Algernon too, it’s been so long since I’ve seen him. Or her. They may as well be dead to me too.
Did I hear his footsteps walking away? I must be losing my mind.
I once told a street buddy about my secret hideaway. He yuk-yukked as I squeezed out the words “Elevator Womb” through my toothless gap.
“Montreuil Soir,” said Humper, who loved saying the full name that my wannabe Parisienne Quebecois mother saddled on me. “You telling me your mama had a giant shaft up there!”
Humper never had a girlfriend which is why we called him by that name. I didn’t tell him about the location and I always made sure no one followed me whenever I came here and waited outside for my chance to sneak into the Elevator Room.
A woman who works at the Cash ’n Grab money exchange next door always came out back for a smoke after lunch, leaving the doors propped open with a wedge of wood. Hidden low in the alley behind the dumpster, below a murder of crows perched on the telephone line blocking some of the slate grey winter sky, I would fix my eyes on her with a cold dead stare until she walked away. Then I’d rush inside.
I used my key, the one that opens the Elevator Room that another bum sold me for a bottle of Wiser’s, and hide behind the mad machinery.
That damn buzzing noise is inside my head!
Like a giant flying insect, I heard it whiz above me, the noise getting louder until it hovered overhead. Humper said it’s a drone. What do I know about drones and modern gadgets and geegaws? They all came about long after my life hit bottom like the elevator in this room. When Fortunata left me and took Algernon. After my job went up in smoke.
When Humper hit the streets, everyone was walking around with their tiny cellular telephones or music-listening devices. He had a phone too but he couldn’t use it. He just stared at pictures of his own kid — until the battery died. Still, he wouldn’t toss the thing. Just kept tapping at the little button, hoping his girl’s photo would come back to life.
Is that a clicking sound outside the door? I think that drone drilled into my head and I’m hearing things. But no, there I hear it again…
The big and little wheels and gears and belts and pipes in this room are relics of an age before these modern gadgets. Industrial age relics. Still, it’s home for me and Algernon who now scurries back into his hole.
Does he hear it too? The clink and twist of a key? Is that the guard there with Fortunata?
I feel the sharp pain in my right hand. Blood drips down the fingers that clutch the jagged edge.
Welcome to the machine fuckers!
Welcome to hell.
