Next time, I'll take the stairs
You'd probably think, dear reader, that the five-minute trek from my office to my car at the end of a workday is not worthy of a blog entry. And on most days you'd be right. But not this evening, dear reader; not this evening.
With the endless construction continuing on the first floors of the parking garage, I had parked on the fifth (actually, between the fourth and the fifth) floor in the morning. As I walked down the hallway leading to the garage, I faced my first moment of truth. Do I trek up the stairs to the fourth or fifth floor, or do I hop in the elevator? Simultaneously preaching to myself the exhaustions caused by a six-hour workday in front of a computer and asserting my lazy-bastard personality, I chose the elevator.
I was joined on the elevator by another IBMer, a surly-looking fellow who stationed himself squarely in front of the elevator buttons and punched the three with vigor and also the five once I meekly stated my destination. Seconds later, the third floor beckoned, and my companion walked out of the elevator, started, and joined me once more. "Wrong floor," he grunted, "sorry about that." He pressed the four, with even more assertiveness than before.
We reached the fourth floor without further incident and my elevatormate left without a word. I contemplated getting off myself and walking up the ramp to my car, but decided to stick to the original plan. Two seconds later, as the elevator eased into the fifth floor it happened: the elevator plunged three, maybe four, feet, and then stopped.
Stopped?
The lights were still on. The doors were still closed.
But the elevator was decidedly stopped. Door open? No effect. Other floors? Fully inoperative.
Faced with this rather unexpected situation, I examined my options. The elevator panels presented me with a somewhat bewildering choice of alarm buttons, So instead of closing my eyes and choosing one, I whipped out my phone (haven't I always been a proponent of cell phones?) and gave Wing a call.
I think he thought I was joking, at first, but I quickly convinced him that I didn't see any possible escape route that didn't involve popping out a ceiling panel and scrambling on top of the elevator car.
To make a long story short, the next ninety minutes featured:
- Wing summoning help from the building staff
- The building staff summoning help from the elevator company
- The building staff wondering why they couldn't hear the elevator alarm bell (which they taught me how to use) before figuring out that they were at the wrong bank of elevators
- Wing coming up to the fifth floor of the garage and chatting with me through the closed doors
- Me deciding I wasn't going anywhere quickly, taking off my backpack, and making myself comfortable on the floor of the elevator
- Mike&mdahs;from the building staff—showing up and chatting with Wing about summer internships, college educations, and teaching English in China
- A failed attempt to get a wireless signal while stuck in the elevator
- Some light reading
- A nap or two
- Playing some computer hearts
- Sending SMS messages to some friends
It wasn't nearly as entertaining as in sitcoms. There was no pregnant woman giving birth. No suspected terrorists or corporate spies. No frightened children, beautiful women, or smelly men (sorry, Sabow). After 90 minutes of confinement, the doors cracked, and a massive, heavily-tattooed man freed me.
So, what did I get out of my adventure this evening? Well, a few things:
- I got a blog entry (with pictures!) out of it, even if there wasn't any wireless signal in the elevator to enable me to blog from there.
- I can muse on whether I'm the first person ever to play hearts on a computer while trapped in an elevator. And if not, how many others have there been? I've never been very good at these ludicrous consulting-job interview questions.
- I finally had a legitimate reason to use doGooder. Thanks, Wing!
- Oh, and I took two pictures:
