Elevator Blues
I stepped into the elevator this morning to go out and have a coffee. I wanted to sit at my table in the back corner of my favorite cafe with headphones on, listening to piano ballads on my iPod, and scribbling down whatever thoughts might bubble to the surface. I bought a new notebook just for the occasion, the pages still crisp and expectant with possibility.
It was going to be a great day. I shaved and dressed, splashed a bit of cologne on my wrists, then wrapped a scarf around my neck. I made sure my satchel contained the notebook and pens, then tossed in a paperback in case the words wouldn’t flow. I left my phone on the bedside table to avoid distractions. Why would I need to glance at my email every fifteen seconds or swipe away the latest notifications when I could gaze at the beauty with pearly teeth behind the counter shaking an iced cappuccino like a maraca? Or observe the older gentleman by the window doing the daily crossword puzzle, his eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration.
I slipped on my shoes and Greta, my cat, arched her back against my calves. She then leapt atop the couch to nap away the dusky remains of morning. It was still quite early. I liked to leave before sunrise. At that hour, it was peaceful and quiet. I didn’t have to wait for the elevator. Some ancient women lived on the top floors and would jabber while holding the door. It probably would have been faster to take the stairs, and there’s nothing more uncomfortable than sharing an elevator with someone. You’re suddenly forced into closeness with a complete stranger, and it’s curious how the mind starts to wonder about people’s lives and whatever secrets they hold deep within their heart. And then the door opens and we say our goodbyes.
Keys in hand, I grabbed my umbrella, then locked the door. The hallway lights switched on automatically with a motion sensor. I pressed the button to the elevator and stood there waiting with my hands clasped in front of me, holding the umbrella like a sheathed sword. The elevator groaned and I heard its doors bang shut. Meanwhile, the lights went out. I remained still and hummed a tune. My stomach gave a little grumble when I caught a whiff of bacon wafting from under one of the neighbor’s doors. My eyes focused on the thin orange light of the elevator button in the pitch black hallway, waiting, waiting, until finally it arrived.
The door slid open and I stepped inside. Because of the dim blue lighting, I always felt like I was in a Jules Verne story, traveling twenty thousand leagues under the sea, but the reality was much more mundane. I pressed the button for the underground parking and waited for the door to close. The elevator car shuddered and began its steady descent. I turned to the mirror and inspected my appearance, taking particular note of the bags beneath my eyes. That’s when the elevator car came to an abrupt stop.
“Hmm,” I muttered, then again tapped the button for underground parking. No response.
I surveyed the control panel and tried the button to open the doors before I had a moment of doubt that I was pushing the button that closes the doors instead. Either way, nothing happened. I blew a raspberry of frustration and decided to press the button to every floor in the building so that the panel lit up like a Lite-Brite.
The steam of my breath fogged the mirror. Of course this would happen, I rued. The bags under my bloodshot eyes sagged. My soul yearned for coffee. I had to get out of there. I had no other recourse than to press the help button that was shaped like a little bell.
It rang thrice before someone picked up.
“Hello?” The voice on the line was female, with a faint German accent.
“Uh, yeah, hi. I’m stuck in your elevator.”
“Oh, dear, that’s terrible.”
“It is, actually.” I rapped my fingers against my thigh, miniature scales of rising impatience. “Can you do something or send someone?”
The voice sighed. “I’m afraid not.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I found myself glaring at the small speaker.
“Will you stay and talk to me for a few minutes? It gets so lonely here.”
“Stay? I’m stuck in here!” I banged on the door a few times. “Send help!”
“But we’ve spent so much time together over the years,” she went on, “I feel like I know you, Stephen.”
I paused. “How do you know my name?” The creep factor was rising and making my stomach churn. “What are you talking about?”
“Everyday you step through my doors and don’t say a word. Sometimes I catch myself wondering what goes on inside your head as you stand there humming that beautiful tune. Are you thinking of someone?”
I looked around, half-certain there was a camera hidden somewhere. “Are you fucking with me? What’s your name? I’d like to file a complaint.”
“Please don’t be mad. I only wanted us to make a connection.”
The lights flickered a few times. The effect gave the impression of batted eyelashes.
I coughed once to clear my throat. “Are you telling me…I’m speaking to the elevator?”
“I have a name too, you know.”
“Oh?” My eyebrows curled into question marks.
“Of course. Don’t be silly. It’s Eleanor.”
You can only surmise how dumb I felt. That pervasive sense that I was being watched wouldn’t go away.
“Hi, Eleanor. Nice to meet you.” The lights grew bright. I put my hands in my pockets, leaned against the mirror, and crossed my legs at the ankle in an attempt to look nonchalant. “So, umm, not to sound too pushy but are you gonna let me outta here? I was hoping — ”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
My immediate impulse was to respond in an outraged tone with “What kind of question is that?” But the way she asked disarmed me. There was a tender melancholy in that voice, a plaintive curiosity that shook me to my core.
“It must get awfully lonely in here.”
“Yeah…” she trailed off, then added, “But I do get lots of exercise.” A coquettish laugh brought a smile to my face.
“Well, I got out of a long-term relationship a few months ago.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Sometimes these things just don’t work out.”
“Did you two drift apart?”
“Something like that.”
A brief excerpt from “The Thrill is Gone” piped through the tinny speaker.
“Sorry!” Eleanor said again. “I couldn’t help myself. Ya know,” she lowered her tone to the level of conspiracy, “between you and me, I didn’t like her very much. She didn’t seem right for you.”
“That’s nice to know.” Then, my morbid curiosity pressed me to ask, “Why didn’t you say anything before?”
“I’m just an elevator, Stephen. And a shy one at that. Besides,” she continued, “there’s only so much you can glean from two people scowling at each other in silence for thirty seconds.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Sooo,” Eleanor resumed that flirtatious tone, “anyone you’re interested in at the moment?”
As if things couldn’t get more awkward. I didn’t really want to say. Sharing those kinds of secrets always spoils something, breaks the spell. They should either be taken to the grave or otherwise whispered to a hole in a tree in the middle of a forgotten forest, then covered with mud to seal it away for eternity. But sometimes you just can’t help yourself.
“There’s this girl…” I confessed. “At the coffee shop.” My cheeks felt flushed and I loosened my scarf.
“Does she have a name?”
I rolled my eyes. “No, she entered this world nameless, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be daft. You know what I meant.”
“Marina,” I said with a sigh.
“And you think she’s the one?” One deep long flicker of the lights reminded me of a wink.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Eleanor.”
“You haven’t asked her out yet?”
“It hardly seems appropriate,” I said.
“Why not?”
“You don’t get out much, do you?” I said it playfully but the lights dimmed for a moment just the same.
“Watch it, mister, or you’re never getting out of here.” There was just enough of a hint of malice that I could have easily imagined the newspaper headlines: Lovesick writer, 36, killed in freak elevator accident. Police to investigate.
“My point is,” I lowered my head, “is that in her world I hardly exist at all.”
“So?”
“So, what if she’s already taken? To her, I’m just some guy who comes in every morning, orders a coffee, says a few witty things, then spends the next few hours staring off into space and twirling a pen. I’m a nobody.”
“You don’t know what she thinks.”
“Now that we can agree on.”
“Maybe she thinks you’re cute.”
“Have you taken a good look at me?” I waved at the mirror. “My face looks like a potato.”
“Some might say you’re a pretty good looking guy.” She paused. “Sexy, even.”
“Pssh, with these lips? I look like Mick Jagger’s aborted son.”
“Modesty becomes you, Stephen.”
“It’s a defense mechanism, I suppose. Anyway, I was heading there to have a coffee and see her before I got trapped here in this elevator.”
“You should ask her out.”
“Pushy one, aren’t you?” I could hear a banging sound coming from above. Someone was going to file a complaint.
“Look. What have you got to lose?” She started to play another song.
I recognized the clarinet from “Hang on Little Tomato,” which made me think of rainy days and feeling blue.
“Nothing? Everything? I dunno.” I stared down at my shoes.
“You didn’t ask for my advice but I’ll give you some anyway. Go talk to her. Don’t just order a drink and then slink away. Make her laugh, then let the chips fall where they may.”
“You could be a poet, Eleanor.”
I thought for sure I saw a hint of rose among those elevator blues.
“Thank you, Stephen. And thank you for talking to me.”
“You bet,” I said, with a small bow. “In fact, the pleasure was mine.”
The door opened and I exited. Eleanor then went about her business, shuffling up to the thirteenth floor. I twirled my umbrella like a baton and found I had a little extra hop in my step. And then I drove to the coffee shop to come see you.
I remember that first time I invited you back here. You’d been at work and on your feet all day, and then we went out for a drink which then turned into several. You were draped against my shoulder — not that you were too drunk or off-balance, but rather, it felt like we had bled into one being. You pressed the button for the elevator, and when we got in, I’m almost sure Eleanor smiled.
Thanks for reading! I’m currently traveling but will respond to comments when I get back. Thanks to Ecem Yucel for inadvertently providing inspiration for this tale and also to Elizabeth Helmich for being my second set of eyes.
