I have thousands of premonitions a day. In the canvas of my imagination, every person next to me is a potential kidnapper, every car loaded with explosives, every store a front for the mob. None of these premonitions ever turn out to be true, mind you, but I still have them daily. Then, when something actually happens, I can tell everyone I knew something fishy was going on. I even daydream about seeing something traumatic, and then having to testify in court about why I remembered so many details. So yesterday, as my co-worker and I stepped on the elevator to head down for lunch, I of course had a premonition that something was off. Was it my imagination, or was the elevator moving slower than usual? I thought it seemed sluggish, drunk, confused. A moment later, when it stopped on the 16th floor to let in a few more people, it seemed the stop was jerky and erratic. But, as always, the doors closed, and the elevator continued its descent down, seemingly untroubled. Another premonition disproved.
Considering my constant premonitions, every elevator ride I've ever taken has been slightly stressful. Premonitions aside, I don't like elevators. Actually, let me rephrase: I don't like small, confined boxes. And I particularly don't like small, confined boxes that dangle from thick steel cables in dark empty shafts. There are simply too many variables left for my imagination to put together. Too many scenes from movies to replay. It's misleading to say I am claustrophobic. It isn't the small contained box itself, as much as the inability to exit that small contained box upon my own choosing. In short, I don't like my fate being controlled by someone else, including overweight, elderly elevator mechanics.
Unfortunately, elevators are a way of life in NY. Walking up stairs is rarely an option. Even when I worked on the tenth-floor of a building a few years ago, I at first tried to walk it. But they lock the entry doors from the outside, so even if you get into the stairs, you can't enter your floor once you get to it. So, I've adapted and learned to ride elevators. And each time I ride, I'm on alert. Every sound is analyzed, speeds constantly monitored, exit plans devised.
So yesterday when the elevator lurched to a stop somewhere between the fourth and fifth floor, I can't say I was taken my surprise. I waited a moment, to ensure that for once my premonition was right. Soon after stopping, the digital floor display blanked out, then began running through all the floor numbers before locking on 25. Then ... nothing. Confirmed. I was stuck in an elevator. I had entertained the possibility every elevator ride I've taken for the past twenty years, and here, finally, my imagination was vindicated.
Then my body surprised my mind. Rather than breaking out into a sweat, and instantly going into panic mode, overtaken by claustrophobia as I had always imagined, I felt nothing. If anything, I was relaxed. I was swept up by the normalcy of it. I had played the "getting stuck in an elevator" scenario in my mind so many times, it was almost a routine when it actually happened. Sure, the elevator wasn't moving and I couldn't get out of it (there wasn't even one of those hatches up top that I had always thought I'd climb out of when imagining this scenario). But neither was I in danger. I was simply in a box that wasn't moving. But common sense prevailed: I knew wouldn't be stuck forever. For one thing, I work in a modern 25-story building on 41st and Broadway, with a team of mechanics. They probably even have someone on staff dedicated just to monitoring the elevators. Secondly, there were plenty of "help" buttons I could press, so in a way, I was in control. Thirdly, there were four other people in the elevator, all apparently looking calm, and I didn't want to be the bitch who was the first to break.
After pulling the alarm for a minute or so, with no result, I pressed a button that said "Signal" (as a side note, I learned that those buttons that have a fire department symbol on it aren't actually buttons, just lights you need a key to access. From this elevator, at least, you couldn't call direct to the fire department). "Signal" put us in touch with the building security. Communicating through the two-way speaker, we notified him that we were stuck. He seemed to lack the tone of real concern, but he helped nonetheless: Communication with the outside world helped as ease tension. We may have essentially been locked in a box, but people on the outside were aware of it. He told us to relax, help should arrive within five minutes.
As we soon learned, they are taught to say "five minutes". Which is good, because you kept thinking help was legitimately right around the corner, so you never got worried. They did a great job keeping up this charade. They kept saying things like "stand away from the door" as if they were right outside. They weren't. They'd keep asking if we were moving. We weren't. When, thirty minutes later, they asked us if we were on the 25th floor, we realized they had no idea what was going on. We were on the fourth floor, how could they not know that by know?
In the car, we all kept up conversation and made jokes. After forty minutes, the elevator was (manually?) lowered to the fourth floor and the doors opened. Nobody was there. We jumped out anyway and walked down the stairs. I still don't know who it was we were talking to or how the elevator was lowered. We got outside and went to lunch and went on as if nothing had happened. In reality, nothing did happen. Usually, elevator rides take thirty seconds. This one took forty minutes. And, as usual, my imagination had made it much more stressful than the reality turned out to be. I now officially have one less thing to fear in my day to day. Now if only I can drop into an open sewer filled with pit vipers and walk out unscathed, I'd pretty much be stress-free.
