my lovely suite. We piled into the small, ancient elevator, Trixie pressed up against me. I pulled the gate closed and the outer door shut automatically. I pressed the button for the first floor.
The elevator lurched as it began its descent and I leaned back against the cool steel of the interior. Trixie decided that our journey was going to take longer than expected and fell to the floor with a thud, her head resting on her paws.
Through the small round window, I saw the fifth floor pass by, then the fourth. The third, however, never materialized as the elevator stopped in a very matter-of-fact fashion way short of its mark. No sudden or abrupt interruption of service, just a slowing, a slight whine, and a cessation of movement. Trixie looked up at me from her spot on the floor as if to say “uh-oh.”
I remained calm and pressed the button for the first floor. Nothing. After a few minutes, I frantically began pushing every button on the panel, finally resting my finger on the alarm button at the bottom. I checked my watch and saw that dinner service was nearing its end. I prayed that dinner had been terrible and that the students in the dorm had eaten hurriedly and raced back to their rooms to dine on the hidden stashes from the care packages their parents sent with regularity. Having stepped over piles of boxes in the mailroom, I knew that care package deliveries were frequent and that they got many college students through the dicey menu that the cafeteria offered.
I also knew, though, that one of the RAs was supposed to be manning the desk in the lobby. I wondered if whichever dedicated person it was would hear my cries from their area or even if the call box was wired into the computer that sat on the desk.
When nobody responded to the alarm, I started banging on the door. “Hello! Anybody out there!” I looked through the glass and could see the fourth floor about five feet above the elevator. “Hey! I’m in here!”
When nobody answered, I jumped up and down on the elevator floor, hoping to get it moving again. When that didn’t work, I tried to pry open the doors; I wasn’t sure what good that would do but I was hoping any movement at all might jolt the mechanism that made the damn thing descend. Trixie started to whine when she sensed my rising anxiety.
I continued calling out to someone, anyone, in the dorm. It occurred to me that most of the lacrosse team lived on the fourth floor and that possibly they were at a game somewhere. I pressed the alarm button again, leaving my finger on it until it ached.
Finally, after about fifteen minutes, the speaker for the call-box crackled and I heard a female’s voice. “Can I help you?”
“Hi!” I yelled, grateful for human contact. Fifteen minutes seemed like a day and a half, stuck in the cramped space with a dog with halitosis. “It’s Dr. Bergeron and I’m stuck in the elevator.”
“Oh, hi, Dr. Bergeron. It’s Amanda.”
“Hi, Amanda. I’m stuck,” I repeated.
“Yeah, that happens,” she said.
I waited for her to tell me what the usual protocol was for a stuck elevator but none was forthcoming. “What do you usually do?” I prodded. What had happened to the jittery, anxious, uptight student whom I had met two days before? She had been replaced by a dullard, it seemed. Maybe without Wayne, she was nothing.
“Well, there’re a few things we can do.”
I waited a few beats. “Like what!”
“Did you jump and down?”
“Yes.”
“Did you try to pry the door open?”
“Yes.” I sat down on the floor next to Trixie. “Suffice it to say, Amanda, that I’ve tried everything possible to get the elevator to start moving again. Let’s skip everything and go to Plan B. What do we do now?”
She was silent. “We’ll call 911,” she said finally.
I was hoping that that wasn’t Plan B, because my main goal was not to call any more attention to myself. First the exploding toilet, then the graveyard incident, and now this. I’d
The elevator lurched as it began its descent and I leaned back against the cool steel of the interior. Trixie decided that our journey was going to take longer than expected and fell to the floor with a thud, her head resting on her paws.
Through the small round window, I saw the fifth floor pass by, then the fourth. The third, however, never materialized as the elevator stopped in a very matter-of-fact fashion way short of its mark. No sudden or abrupt interruption of service, just a slowing, a slight whine, and a cessation of movement. Trixie looked up at me from her spot on the floor as if to say “uh-oh.”
I remained calm and pressed the button for the first floor. Nothing. After a few minutes, I frantically began pushing every button on the panel, finally resting my finger on the alarm button at the bottom. I checked my watch and saw that dinner service was nearing its end. I prayed that dinner had been terrible and that the students in the dorm had eaten hurriedly and raced back to their rooms to dine on the hidden stashes from the care packages their parents sent with regularity. Having stepped over piles of boxes in the mailroom, I knew that care package deliveries were frequent and that they got many college students through the dicey menu that the cafeteria offered.
I also knew, though, that one of the RAs was supposed to be manning the desk in the lobby. I wondered if whichever dedicated person it was would hear my cries from their area or even if the call box was wired into the computer that sat on the desk.
When nobody responded to the alarm, I started banging on the door. “Hello! Anybody out there!” I looked through the glass and could see the fourth floor about five feet above the elevator. “Hey! I’m in here!”
When nobody answered, I jumped up and down on the elevator floor, hoping to get it moving again. When that didn’t work, I tried to pry open the doors; I wasn’t sure what good that would do but I was hoping any movement at all might jolt the mechanism that made the damn thing descend. Trixie started to whine when she sensed my rising anxiety.
I continued calling out to someone, anyone, in the dorm. It occurred to me that most of the lacrosse team lived on the fourth floor and that possibly they were at a game somewhere. I pressed the alarm button again, leaving my finger on it until it ached.
Finally, after about fifteen minutes, the speaker for the call-box crackled and I heard a female’s voice. “Can I help you?”
“Hi!” I yelled, grateful for human contact. Fifteen minutes seemed like a day and a half, stuck in the cramped space with a dog with halitosis. “It’s Dr. Bergeron and I’m stuck in the elevator.”
“Oh, hi, Dr. Bergeron. It’s Amanda.”
“Hi, Amanda. I’m stuck,” I repeated.
“Yeah, that happens,” she said.
I waited for her to tell me what the usual protocol was for a stuck elevator but none was forthcoming. “What do you usually do?” I prodded. What had happened to the jittery, anxious, uptight student whom I had met two days before? She had been replaced by a dullard, it seemed. Maybe without Wayne, she was nothing.
“Well, there’re a few things we can do.”
I waited a few beats. “Like what!”
“Did you jump and down?”
“Yes.”
“Did you try to pry the door open?”
“Yes.” I sat down on the floor next to Trixie. “Suffice it to say, Amanda, that I’ve tried everything possible to get the elevator to start moving again. Let’s skip everything and go to Plan B. What do we do now?”
She was silent. “We’ll call 911,” she said finally.
I was hoping that that wasn’t Plan B, because my main goal was not to call any more attention to myself. First the exploding toilet, then the graveyard incident, and now this. I’d
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