What Goes Up, Doesn't Come Down

When they say the elevator doesn’t always go up to the top floor, they are not only talking about the space between my ears, but also the metal Venus Fly Trap in our crazy a$$ ghetto fabulous building.  Besides skipping floors and depositing you right in front of the person you wish to most avoid in the day, the doors of the lift often suddenly body slam you and dent (and steal) your parcels. In the most brilliant times, the doors just don’t open at all, and the alarm, well it’s just a glorified bell.

Several months ago, this happened to me. I was bashing on the doors in vain and pushing the red panic button only to realize to my horror that it was just a bell and had no link to ‘the central elevator agency’ or some other place of authority. My phone had no reception and I was close enough to my door for my swift spouse, P, to hear.  Listening is  not his strong suit, but I thought hearing would be. I was wrong.

My vivid imagination stepped in, and after realizing my screams were wasted, I worried that I was going to run out of oxygen. I could be gone for hours before P realized I was missing! When it dawned on him that the apartment was unusually quiet, he would think that I was cornered for gossip by some neighbor and that's why I was not around.

P would only find me when our four year old, Lanes, did something bad in the potty or if he suddenly had a hankering for lunch, not realizing I was ‘out to lunch’ with fear in the metal can. After jumping several times to get out of being in between floors and with lots of praying, the doors opened and I stumbled out.  Of course, I had no sympathetic audience.

P was yakking on the phone so loudly, folks in Idaho could hear his conversation.  I walked in looking more frazzled and disheveled than a cat that accidentally fell into a running washing machine. When he finally heard what happened to me, he brushed it off with a flick of a wrist, and said I was being dramatic when I stuck to using the stairs for several weeks after that.

So on Friday night, this all happens to P. My parents were still in town and our friends were visiting when he called from the elevator (of course he has reception in there and I don’t despite being on the same plan).  I was grateful for the company because Lanes was always suspicious of the elevator, having witnessed it trying to thin out my wide hips several times. I also didn’t want her involved in any of the drama of getting her beloved daddy out.

After leaving her in the custody of several anxious but able adults, one of my friends accompanied me on the long trek upstairs to the apartment of the one maintenance guy who lives in the building.  How do I know where he lives? One day when I was lurking in the lobby, he went to his mailbox and I spied his apartment number, so I would know where someone with some authority lives.  

I know that’s kind of horrible, but it’s all about survival of the fittest. When you’ve witnessed things like water gushing out of the elevator like Niagra Falls at 2am and don’t know who to call besides Ghost Busters, this is a viable back up plan. That’s the good news.

The bad news is that he is the least handy, handyman I know. His explanation for everything is to blame it on condensation and lack of air circulation (perhaps that's what some doctor told him after checking his ears).  He never calls the manager for help and shivers at the thought of being proactive. In most cases, the Fire Department has to come and do his work for him. 

After we arrived at his door, he told us to tell P to push the doors open and come back if that doesn’t work or if he is in between floors. My thighs were screaming from all that climbing and I realized I had muscles in my bottom I never thought I had before, just to get that pearl of wisdom.

When we rushed to the lobby, unlike my solitary scary episode, we found that P had an audience of worried neighbors rooting for him and scurrying around trying to figure out who to call (the manager never picks up her phone).  P followed the instructions we gave him and mercifully, the doors opened.

My parents were really upset and were wondering why I wasn’t fluttering about around him and Lanes, having eavesdropped as usual, was rushing to her father and all couldn’t understand why I didn’t give him a hero’s welcome! Actually, inside my heart was pounding and my throat was dry. Of course my mom, ever P’s number one supporter, told me to hug him and get him water.

That was until I told her what his reaction to me getting stuck was! Not only that, he sassed me for avoiding the elevator for a long time after that. Any old how, we all take the stairs now—except to do laundry. I’ll have to stick food, water, a porter potty, a novel, and possibly some flares into the cart each time I step in I guess. If only there was wifi in there...

Just before my parents left, I had to do a load and nearly threw out my shoulder lifting the metal laundry cart down the stairs. In desperation, I took the lift to pick up the clothes, when it has to stop in the lobby mysteriously, and who has to appear right then and there? My nutty sister.

She had come to pick up our parents. I see her in the lobby looking big eyed and confused—holding a huge home made dollhouse, almost wider than her short arm span. I debated running back into the lift and saying I’ll meet her after I get the clothes, but she looked like the house was about to fall on her, ‘Wizard of Oz’ style—if only she had stripped stockings.

She looked ridiculously little, and against better judgement, I went towards her in a reflex effort to help.  She lunged at me and dumped the house precariously on my cart! I was unable to balance the house on the cart and couldn’t figure out what to do. Then I saw her picking up a huge storage box! 

I made a beeline for the lift before she decided to keep some circus runaways, a fridge, and a tractor in my place too.  She said she needed all those things out of the guest room to make it perfect for having our parents over. 

I was mortified to realize that while I was telling my sister that she was a royal pain where the sun don’t shine and reminding her that I lived in an apartment, and not a store room, some poor lady was holding open the elevator doors for me. I was so stunned I was mumbling apologies and she said it’s no problem because moving in is so stressful, she was happy to help.

So I went with that and pretended I was moving in and that poor lady had to help me push the cart out of the elevator while I balanced the house. I found some space to store all the rest of the paraphernalia. The one good thing about the ghetto--lots of space for an apartment.  

Although I was threatening my sibling, I was sad when she went off with my folks. Lanes and I were really bored and bummed out, but she was very sweet and stroked my face and told me that if I miss my mommy and daddy, she can always pretend to be my mommy. I felt sorry that she held back her tears for my sake. I must remember these sweet moments during her teenage years!

She put on a brave face and played with the homemade dollhouse that is now on a low book shelf in our hallway. I already anticipate hearing many things about it when P fumbles to the loo in the middle of the night and bumps his thighs on it. Oh well.

Lanes was happily distracted later, when she saw her other cousins because P's twin and his family are visiting. So next week will be updates of sights and sounds from BC, plus a follow up on my journey with homeopathic medicines. Or I might be blogging from the elevator since I need to use it to get to the laundry room...More musings from BC next week...if not, please call P and tell him his wife is missing!