Hate on an Elevator

Forgot about the 13th floor, it’s the eighth floor that scares the hell out of me.

I work in a medium-sized office building in the financial district.

It doesn’t have a 13th floor, like many buildings in town, but that hasn’t slowed down the malevolent mob of gremlins that seem to inhabit the elevator system.

Twice is the last few months, I’ve been trapped in the elevator after it came to a screeching halt at the eighth floor.

I don’t function well in small spaces; I dislike heights, and I get totally nutzoid when I’m stuck in a small space suspended 150 feet in the air.

The first incident occurred several weeks ago while I checking my smart phone on the way down to the lobby. The elevator jammed so violently that the I-phone flew out of my hand as if it were possessed.

I’ve worked in office buildings for a large portion of my life and I’ve never been stuck in the elevator. For those of you who have not experienced this machine age nightmare, trust me when I tell you that it sucks in the extreme.

You feel helpless and exposed—at least I sure as hell did. I was convinced the cables were going to snap and send me crashing down to earth.

I hit the alarm button, talked with the front desk people, and a few moments later, the doors opened. I bounced out on the eighth floor and stood shaking until another elevator arrived and took me down to terra firma.

Okay, I thought, fine. I was only stuck for a few minutes and now I had a story to tell friends and co-workers. After that I pretty much forgot about it.

Until Wednesday night.

Once again, I was heading home, once again I was alone, and once again the horror began at the eighth floor.

This time was worse, though, and the jolt felt much more violent, like the whole damn building was going to collapse.

I wasn’t thinking even remotely rationally as I wildly searched for the alarm button without putting on my glasses.

Every Man for Himself

As a result, I was hitting the wrong button, which did not trigger the alarm, but it triggered me into having a claustrophobic conniption fit.

“Help!” I shouted. “Help!”

“Press the alarm button!” someone shouted from the eighth-floor lobby.

“I did!”

Only I hadn’t. Panic and anger are corrosive cousins that can blind you to the most obviously solutions. I was convinced I was trapped—and by feeling that way, I really was trapped.

Had I been thinking rationally, I would’ve put on my glasses and found the proper button a lot sooner than I did. Finally, I put on the specs and rang up the lobby.

“We’re calling the mechanic,” a disembodied voice told me.

“Where the hell is he?” I shouted.

I looked around my tight surroundings. This elevator didn’t even have handrails I could grab onto and at least pretend I was safe. I was screwed.

“I don’t fucking believe it,” I said to no one. “Twice this has happened to me?”

The elevator abruptly moved, causing me to freak out, fearful that I was about to climb the stairway to Heaven.

“When the door opens, step out of the elevator,” the lobby voice told me.

“No kidding!”

I got to the ground floor and demanded to speak to someone in charge. I was royally pissed but I did have the presence of mind to thank the staff for getting me out.

At least two of my co-workers have been stuck in the elevators, so it ain’t just me.

I seriously considered filing a complaint with the Building Department. A little googling revealed that my building apparently belongs to a Ukrainian fertilizer tycoon—I shit you not—who owns several buildings in town.

I have passed my complaints on to the office management and I’ll let them handle this issue—for now.

But every night when I go home, I’m praying that I’ll get passed the eighth floor.