Midwest Memo
Floor please
by Alan Shultz

I was stuck in an elevator a couple weeks back. It was early on a Sunday morning and I was alone in the elevator. I hit the floor 10 button and the cab started its assent. Midway on the trip up the elevator lurched a little and then the lights on the selector panel went dark.

"Uh oh."

I hit floor #10 again. Nothing. I hit the "doors open" button. Nothing.

"Ok, calm down."

I hit the alarm button. Nothing.

I always feel bad when I'm on terra firma when I hear the brrrring, brrring, brrring, of an elevator alarm bell.

"Poor guys," I think to myself, imagining a single sole or a packed group of folks trapped up in an elevator not knowing if anyone can hear them.

This time it was just me suspended up there. I pictured someone in the lobby looking up towards the direction of the alarm noise. I pictured them pausing, then shrugging their shoulders and moving on.

"Come back," I called out to the imaginary passerby.

I hit the alarm button again. This time a voice came on over a speaker system.

"May I help you."

"Yes," I replied, "I'm stuck."

My link to the outside world was a fellow named George. After introductions were made, George and I proceeded to maintain a running conversation. We started out with him very subtly accusing me of breaking his elevator.

I realized that if the crime lab ever dusted for prints they would see that at one point I had tried to force the doors open. I kept this little detail from George. Why complicate things this early on in our relationship?

Although George's voice boomed over the speaker inside the elevator, he had quite a bit of trouble hearing me. I had to stand on my tiptoes and shout into the upper corner of the elevator cab. It was an odd sensation, but I shouted away, nonetheless.

My cell phone didn't work in the elevator so I had no choice but to make friends with George. He was my only link to the outside world. After a little small talk, I asked George to make a couple phone calls for me. One was to the fellow at the airport waiting for me to pick him up curbside at United Airlines.

George was very helpful. Twenty minutes into the experience, George and I had compared notes about work and weather and life's little inconveniences. Now the fun was to begin. The elevator repair folks were on the premises.

First I was advised to stand away from the elevator door.

That was easy.

Next I was advised to "hold on" to the railings inside the elevator cab.

"Hmmmm."

What proceeded was a kind of free form drifting of the elevator cab up and down, up and down. I wasn't stopping at floors, I wasn't crashing or free falling, I was kind of floating. It was creepy and clearly I had left my stomach on a different floor from where we were traveling to. The indicator lights on the control panel were blinking on and off and floor numbers appeared on the screen that had no corresponding buttons on the panel.

When I finally "landed" and the doors opened there were two official fellows in suits holding note pads to greet me. They did what I would call a little "exit interview" for insurance purposes.

George and I never actually met. I didn't get to put a face with the voice. No matter. If we ever do encounter each other it certainly won't be over an elevator emergency intercom.

Say, I wonder if George handles folks who pass out taking the stairs.