“Floor 7, please.”
She presses the button. She’s so tiny I’m almost surprised she can reach it.
“6 please,” says the man who follows me in. I watch the man as he struggles to look comfortable. He’s carrying a soft briefcase in his right hand. His left hand holds one strap of a back pack on his left shoulder. He shuffles about, nervously, and I think maybe he’s going to a job interview. Then I notice he’s wearing jeans. They’re nice, but they’re still jeans.
Just then he abruptly steps to the back center of the elevator and turns to his left, leaning on the back wall of the elevator. He’s now facing the woman, but he’s looking down. Maybe he’s looking at her – she is pretty short – but it appears that he’s just nervously looking at the ground. He is carrying two bags. Maybe he’s up to something nefarious.
The elevator opens on the 4th floor. The woman gets out, and the man immediately moves to the front of the elevator as the doors close.
Then he begins to wipe his hand up and down between the elevator buttons as though he’s cleaning them. He does this only for a moment as though he suddenly realizes that he’s being very strange. He wanders back to the back left corner of the elevator, avoiding eye contact with me as I’ve given up on pretending to not notice his strangeness.
We arrive at the 6th floor. The doors open. He exits. As he goes, I almost tell him to have a nice day, but think better of it as I’m not sure what “nice” might mean to this nervous, two-bag carrying man.
As the doors close, I immediately realize the cause of his strange behavior. It envelopes me like a thick fog rolling off of Lake Michigan. I gasp for air, but air, clean crisp air, wants no part of this elevator car. I feel like the trip from floor 6 to floor 7 takes days. I’m on my knees pawing at the doors, begging them to open. When they finally do, I fall out onto the 7th floor, tears of relief and pain intertwining as they wind their way down my cheeks to the old hardwood floor.
The doors close behind me, but the cloud has only partially gone with it. I fear that it will cling to me for the remainder of the day, attacking all who come near me. But as I walk down the hall I realize that it is slowly being left in my wake. I say a quick prayer for the next passenger to get on Car 4. They know not what awaits them.
I know that every time I step on an elevator from this day forward, I will not fear falling. I will not fear death. I will fear the entrapment of the Dutch Oven.
