Gratitude and humor: Stuck in an elevator the night before Thanksgiving

I was trapped. Nine o’clock at night, Thanksgiving Eve, in a tiny elevator in the bowels of an old industrial complex.

“This shit only happens to me,” I thought. Making it worse, I’d just broken the number one #cop rule: “Never pass up a bathroom.”

Getting stuck in an #elevator isn’t exactly the type of adrenaline-inducing predicament that makes the need to pee go away; nor the reality of how remote a location I was in. Or the fact the bathroom I just passed was literally next to the elevator shaft.

I stayed late after class talking with a student. We just completed the final session of the New York State Impaired Driver Program, a 16-hour course required of convicted drunk/drugged drivers to get their full license back. It was only when his girlfriend texted him wondering where he was that we realized the time. ?I confessed that my wife knew exactly where I was – talking some poor soul's ear off.

We stepped into the dark hall – so dark that I needed the light of his cell phone to lock the classroom door. As we walked, motion sensors activated the dull scant lighting. I made a mental note of the men's room and consciously disregarded “the rule” even though my bladder tugged at me.

We reached the side hallway where the old building’s "secret" elevator was and bid each other a happy holiday. I stepped into the lift as the student disappeared around the corner.

I punched the down button. The door rattled shut. Then nothing. I hit the button again. Again nothing. Reality set in. I cursed.

The #humor of the moment wasn't lost, but my location in the bowels of this otherwise incredibly unique office building gave me pause. My bladder reminded me it was along for the ride and scolded me for ignoring my better instincts.

Just like in the movies, I repeatedly but senselessly stabbed at the elevator panel buttons, including a few long holds on the alarm. I unrealistically hoped my student was within hearing range and would come back to laugh and share my misery. Nope.

I looked around my triangular coffin. I was distracted by its dimensions. With its three-by-four-by-five-foot design, I thought of Pythagoras and his formula. After all, I’m married to an 8th-grade math teacher. I’ve spent 15 years instructing crash investigation to #police recruits. We laugh at how it’s the only #math they remember.

I had a choice. I could call the emergency number posted on the wall for Omni Elevator or use the bright red alarm box that would presumably summon the cavalry. It was suspiciously too new looking for such an ancient hoist.

Of course, I chose wrong.

I jabbed the stainless-steel button on the box. A polite woman answered but was drowned out by a yesteryear analog dial tone accompanied by incessant clicking. Great. I tried to understand and answer her questions.

Then the call went dead.?More cursing.

My inner child reminded me of the misinformed concept that one could survive a plummeting elevator crash by jumping in the final moment. I was only three floors up. Focus.?I jabbed the call box button again.

More dial tone. The nice lady answered. I needlessly explained we’d been cut off. She suggested that my hitting the alarm button was to blame.?Immediately less grateful for her help, I suggested I might be better off calling 911. “Don’t do that!” she instructed.?“I’m talking to the guy from the elevator company right now.”

I sensed lack of confidence. I not-so-gently asked, “Do you know where I am? Do you know WHICH elevator I’m in?”

“Yes, of course,” she said weakly. “Which one did you say?”

More swear words. This time in my head.

The former #industrial #building I was trapped in is a #maze . Renovated into offices scattered along football field-length corridors lined with incredible artworks, it is a #labyrinth of stairwells, offshoot hallways, and alcoves alternating between two, sometimes three floors. The reality of my insignificance at 9:30 p.m. in an isolated corner of an immense structure set in. I was haplessly helpless.

To humorously lighten the load, my inner child partnered with my now screaming bladder to have me actually consider pissing in one of the available three corners.

My cell phone rang. An unidentified caller from Florida.?This time I listened to my instinct that it might be help and answered.

“This is (so-and-so) from Omni Elevator. Did you try opening the door?” the male inquired. (I wish I could remember his name because I owe him.)

Deep breath.?“Yes,” I toned patiently. “Tried that. Doesn’t move. Nothing to hold on to.”

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll be there in 15 to 20 minutes.” Progress. I texted my wife: “Trapped in elevator. Not kidding. Waiting for help from elevator company. WTF.”

“OMG!” she sent back. “Are you alone?” I confirmed that indeed I was. I ignored her request for details.

So, what does a frustrated #photographer do when he’s stuck in an elevator the night before #thanksgiving ?

He shoots his surroundings.

I was first drawn to a black-and-white #photograph of a castle on a cliff by Richard Quataert. His work can be viewed at ARTISANworks – an eclectic event space and amazing #artgallery .

I turned around to view a colorful painting of faces by George Wegman. I’d call it “primitive” in style, no insult intended, but I’m no #art expert. My face, which doesn’t change much between emotions, could easily be one of them. Particularly in the moment.

My art tour and #photographic expedition were interrupted by elevator guy calling again. “I’m here.” Is there someone inside who can let me in? The doors are locked.”

Sigh.

My wife will tell you … I’m not patient.?With all seriousness and sincerity, I try. I breathe. I count. I meditate. I read. I journal. There’s #therapy . My facial expression may not change, but somehow, I know my impatience shows. Through the phone, I suspected elevator guy felt my frustration.

Interview and interrogation training kicked in. I chose silence. It worked.

“I’ll call someone,” he offered.?To be fair, elevator guy was great.?Just doing his job.?Getting called out on a holiday isn’t fun. It’s almost unfair.?Been there.?I apologized and tried to be part of the solution.

“You know, maybe we’d be better off if I called 911 and got the fire department to get me out,” I suggested.

“Gezzus, no!” he reacted. “The owner of the building will charge you for the damage! I’ll call her.”

Somewhere between the humor of my predicament and the outrageous prospect of being sued by the building’s owner for getting stuck in HER malfunctioning hoist, I was tempted. I imagined my countersuit. I would wait. Some more.

I continued my #photography and posted a few images and my frustration to #Instagram . I ignored the almost immediate response from a former co-worker – a #police sergeant who suggested I might have exceeded the 1500-pound weight limit. Cops.

I called the wife.

“Good thing you didn’t call me right away,” she said.?I imagined her sitting on the couch, enjoying an oversized, over-poured glass of merlot. “Because I’ve been laughing the whole time.”

“Never-ever scold me again when I say ‘this shit only happens to me,’” I shot back. She laughed some more.?“I’ll text you when I get out.”

At the one-hour mark, almost on cue, there was a commotion above me. Presumably, elevator guy either got in or somehow climbed onto the roof.?The door suddenly sluggishly rattled open.

I grabbed my backpack, clambered out, ran for the bathroom, and was all kinds of relieved.

I texted the wife.?I scrambled down a stairwell I had avoided for the past two years because it was labeled “Fire Exit Only.” Mental note: stop being such a rule follower.

Outside the building, I called elevator guy to make sure we were all set and confirm it was indeed him who had freed me.?It was. "You know, I'm going to have to get parts for this thing," he said. "It's going to be out of service for at least a week."

"I know this is going to sound terrible,” I said, “but that's not my problem," I said. I envisioned myself trudging up three flights of stairs. Not wanting to appear the indignant ingrate, I quickly and sincerely followed up. Seriously.

"I really appreciate you coming out at night, particularly on a holiday, to get me out. Thank you."

"Happy Thanksgiving," he offered.

"Happy Thanksgiving to you as well.”

Gratitude. Always appropriate. Always in season.

#gratitude #humorous #thankful #holiday #holidays #holidayseason #flx #rochesterny #rochester #fingerlakes #thanks