Hold That Vator, Darth

It's been used as a plot device on almost every sitcom. Growing up under the parentage of the TV, I often wondered how I would fare were I ever stuck in an elevator. Today I found out.

I was going to work after Annie's two appointments and parked in the ramp across the street from my office building. I was on the 6th floor. I got into an empty elevator, selected the 1st floor, and waited. Around the 4th floor, the elevator lurched slightly, then stopped. 10 seconds. 20 seconds.

Hmmm. Looks like an emergency to me. I hope this phone works.

The taped message informed me that I was in an elevator [well, duh!] and that I would be connected with a dispatcher.

--This is blah-blah. Is your elevator stuck?

--Yes. I believe so. I haven't pushed any other buttons. I just called y'all first. Do you want me to press the buttons?

--Yes. Go press "Door Open."

--Nothing.

--Try "Door Closed." [They are already closed, dude.]

--Still nothing.

--What's your name? [I tell him. He only gets it half right]. I'll call the dispatcher. You'll receive another call shortly.

Click.

So I called my boss to let her know I would be late. Thank goodness my Cingular [now the New AT&T] phone still had service. That's pretty awesome for being in a steel box, in a cement building stuck between floors.

Thank goodness I had my lunch [from Panera] on me. Thank goodness I got the soup and sandwich and not the salad and sandwich. Too bad I didn't get a drink. Yay on the chocolate chip cookie, though.

Silent reverie interrupted by call on emergency phone. The voice is a female.

--Hi, Anne. This is blah-blah. Are you still stuck?

--Yup. [I'm talking with you, aren't I?]

--I have dispatched a repair man. He will be there in 30 minutes or less, depending upon the traffic. [Or else my pizza is free?] Are you O.K?

--Can you help me with this rising sense of panic I'm experiencing?

--Ma'am. Get low to or on the floor. [Have you looked at that floor? It's nasty! If I got down on the floor, I really would panic.]

--I'm sort of kidding. [But sort of not.] Can you tell me if they'll have me climb out the ceiling or anything? [Visions of Shelly Winters in 'The Poseidon Adventure.']

--They'll open the door for you ma'am.

--O.K. Thanks! [Wow. You're pretty cheerful for being stranded.]

More silent reverie. Hmmm. Maybe I should say a rosary. I wonder how long this is gonna' take. This small room is only climate-controlled by God. Is that the faint whiff of BO I smell? Is that me? Who would've expected 85 degrees in March? I think that is me. It can't be me. I think it's old BO. Hey, how old is this tin can? Put in service January 10, 1975. But the parking deck is only 5 years old at most. This is a Nixon-era vator? That explains a lot. Silent reverie broken by an annoyed tapping on the other side of my door.

--[Male voice] Is this thing stuck?

--[Me, cheerfully yelling.] Ye-ess! And I'm stuck in it!

--Oh, crap. I'll take the stairs.

Hey! Where's the chivalry? You must be a lawyer. Thanks for the professional courtesy, dude.

Interior door opens and then closes. Pulse rate quickens, ever so. Elevator smoothly moves down to first floor. The door opens. 'Ritchie' lets me out. I thank him, happily. He apologizes. I tell him it's not his fault. I trip on the doorway because he lowered it below the threshhold. That was his fault. The breeze blows and the sun shines on my face and I quickly walk across the street to work. I'm totally gonna' blog this. I hesitate, ever so, in getting on the next elevator and then get on another elevator alone.

Yeah, girl. Get back on that horse.