It is chilling to get trapped inside an elevator. Not because of what would make for extraordinary tales of escapes and heroism, like the story I received from a caller who absolutely isn’t my biggest admirer. There was once a man who called me and told me that his elevator was going down, only to add, life was bringing him down as well.
When I called, I was advised to reach out to emergency services, but all I got were some disgruntled firemen. What I got was a pair of firemen who weren’t inclined toward the task at hand. Though I certainly did not wish to hear the elevator story, I suspect everyone else was very interested in hearing how the firemen lifted elevator man to the ceiling and out of ‘his cradle’.
I found myself in my building’s elevator C yesterday morning- yes the one that is notoriously “temperamental.” It’s elevator C, the one everyone seems to have given up on doing maintenance for, and much like I’ve given up on expecting our IT department to work. In my imagination, a rude teenager is metaphorically asked to do the chores, they say ‘No’ and close the door. I shove my back against the wall and dismiss the flops my expression is telling people, which makes me seem glued and regrettably approachable, only to wish they leave me alone. C carries me forward with four people, just as foolish as me and ready to experience whatever ‘joy’ is there at 8:47 on a Tuesday morning.
One lady in bewildered pantsuits stared unrealistically a the coffee and appeared to be having one of those duets where she kisses the cup and her very next motion can decide whether or not we pour the drink stamping it with life. I had no clue what kind are wearing and what goggles are seeing because a young man with giant headphones seemed covered from head to belly button where ever this weird rock is blasting my way. It’s as if it’s one big grant away from deemed cardio and “WaS” shark week is declaring to be in the works. Two shmo heads were staring into space alongside dreaming up scenarios about how terribly mediocre their life is about to be.
The elevator made a concerning creaking noise as we reached the third floor. It started to open; the doors somehow managed to lift our spirits a little and let us hope they would open fully, but then they retreated and decided they were not ready to set us free. The beep was a last warning, or what one would call a call to action, to not exit but remain inside.
The tension must have built beyond my reach because this was bound to be a challenging talk considering the elevator was still moving. The silence was unbearable. Unlike me, there was no sense of contact that anyone was willing to look out for which is why all the attention was on each person, myself included.
Without believing me, I could say that the silence could not have been better or rather worse without air. And as if on cue, my fellow passengers made it all worse by trying their hardest to make the silence feel more tense than it actually was. In faithful partnership, the woman with the coffee took a sip which only drummed up even more insufferable tension because the whole situation became unbearably quiet as more than one sip was heard accompanied by a scenes of great jubilation from the other passengers. The: 4… 5… 6.
And finally, ${({lbn$}&)>}.
And then guesses WHAM!—they didn’t. WHAM. The doors almost whacked the coffee woman in the face. She muttered some jumbled profanity and elbowed her way into the foyer, struggling through the door with a cardboard tray full of lattes.
At this point in time, it set in my mind that I was experiencing some surreal modern adaptation of Sartre’s play, “No Exit.” You imagine this elevator from a purgatorial lens, where five strangers-turned-cursed souls contend with an endless cycle of climbing and descending: tantalizingly close to liberation yet frustratingly bound. When we reached the tenth floor, for some reason my head told me I had spent an eternity on the tenth floor and had aged seven years in the process, and I quickly suspected I had aged around seven years from when I narrated my ordeal on the first floor. The doors began their customary display: a slit wide enough to hint at ‘forward’ but followed by some suspense, only to finally give way to far greater expansiveness…
I sauntered toward the gap, prepared to jump the threshold as if hyperbolically being flung into an awaiting panopticon. The doors started closing but executed what seemed like a bow before forming the gap I had been eyes-piercing waiting for. I turned my shoulder expecting a push as though I were rushing through a ramming gate and forcing open a door, the door in question being the right door of the elevator.
A space no larger than a phone booth (which for San Francisco, might as well be a citation for using a phone) was awaiting me just on the other side of that door. I was smack in the middle of a single one out of three hindrances that I had in escaping the elevator. “My apologies,” I repeated to… well, no one and everyone at the same time, while pushing through the tight space whithout having the slightest idea as to why I feel I owe this hardware a piece of my humility that it clearly was despising all mankind.
As I set foot on ground, I pictured my temporal elevator mates being lifted ever higher, and if they were to rest in that vertical purgatory, not reaching any destination for which they intended. These lift encounters can induce near unparalleled existential nihilism.
When you really think about it, elevators are deeply unsettling. They ascends and descends us through different locations, and for us, what does life represent besides a neverending cycle of rises and falls? They have also a very propelling sense of claustrophobia. Within an elevator these is no space to move without getting buried.
The psychology of elevator design continually interests me. Who, for example, decided we should all face the doors and not each other? Who gave the order to use omnidirectional speakers to make elevator music so painfully inoffensive?
And who left it to the elevators to magnificently program the doors to open and close, cruelly facing us with their exquisite intentions? The other day, I found myself ‘trapped’ in B – my preferred (& more reliable) elevator compared to C – with the CEO of the company. A man who I had exchanged a grand total of two words with in five years worth of encounters (both conversations were focused on the weather). The B elevator’s doors opened at lobby level to reveal approximately four inches of the outside world before snapping shut with a finality that implied we could be there for quite some time.
These sustained periods of silence are far worse than they appear. I imagined breaking the silence with some attempt at small talk, only to realize that doing so would be worse than the silence itself. And then, all of a sudden, he coughed.
As if it were too much of a pleasure, I paid heed to the sounds of my breathing. The voice of the astrological personality must be taking grip of him because he said unnaturally cheerfully for someone who knows just one solar system, a retrograde is pending mercury must ‘…”
My amusement had limits and so controling laughter ripple effect inside our metallic prison cell without regard for turning volume down was heard.
As I inhaled aviating, gates of doors seemed open and the commotion had stopped – noticing people seemed not to have perished but rather the opposite. Uninjured but still thankful to be alive – I have initiated the route of stairs towards my office whenever I am dealing with ‘unfortunate situations.’ The occurrences of incidents in elevators has now become so frequent that it feels even more appropriate to bruise every eye in sight.
Without welcoming this twist of survival, I was forced to again endure the embarrassment of wearing same mundane suit every day. This time I was 1 of so many prisoners sacrificial lamb worn for punishment.
Backer filed in behind, waiting weary slabs of shiny steel to get pressed in and transformed into an up button. Soothing ding I expected – are ‘now modifying this reality to do whichever test gist mix & respite simultaneously make sense.
I appear to flourish on those last exhilarating moments preceding the elevator opening. While I don’t require a life on pause, those intermissions where no expectations are placed on me seem to last forever. With today’s permanent level of being busy, it seems these elevator limbos are the closest we will ever get to real tranquility.
From that perspective, I do wish real stillness came with more polite arrivals and departures.
