Societal Satire in Shorts

Elevated Experience

S. G. Lacey

​

Entryway:

        I stand attentively facing a pair of unfathomably shiny stainless-steel doors.  The polished sheen is so immaculate that this surface is more akin to a glass mirror than a metal plate.  Impressive.

     Thus, I can easily see my visage, from head to toe, in the reflection.  I smile broadly, and my doppelganger immediately smirks back.  The only anomaly is the nearly imperceptible seam running through my curved lips, and down my entire small body.  I’m clearly perfectly centered in front of this sturdy barrier, ready to pounce as soon as the panels part.

         Having only been ridden in a few elevators during my entire short life, I was really hoping to push the button which summons this automated ride.  In fact, this is the first time in my life I’m looking down at this activation device, as opposed to upwards.

       Unfortunately, the bell hop in the lobby is too gentlemanly.  After taking the dingy pink camo backpack from my tired shoulders with a white gloved paw, showing no perceptible sign of disgust at my disheveled luggage, he gently pressed the round circle on the wall with his other clad hand.  The upward facing arrow transitioned from opaque silver to glowing gold instantly. 

          Maybe I can activate this toggle again just for fun. I’m half hoping for the lit lamp to turn off, so I can quickly reach out and jab it again.   

       As I wait for my ascending rocket ship to arrive, I momentarily take my eye off the numerical display above the broad doors, which denotes the location of this descending craft, to look around the remarkable space I currently find myself in. 

      A flowing fountain, arcing jets of water cascading over a curated mound of polished rocks, delivers a soothing background of white noise.  The light in this expansive space is provided by ornate blown glass bulbs, not attached to the chandelier hanging in the cathedral center of the room, but also with similar smaller clusters mounted vertically on the walls at strategic points where darkness would otherwise encroach. 

        There’s a noticeable aroma of botanicals in the air, falling somewhere between lavender and sage according to my naïve nasal palette, even though no plants are visible throughout the space.  But the real coupe de gras is the flooring, an ornate carpet of red, gold, and white, with navy blue accents, in an Oriental motif.  I immediately associate the repeating design with the fanciful dragons from my fairytale reading.

       I pinch myself to make sure the surrounding beauty is real.  Ouch.  I’m not dreaming, based on the red splotch materializing on my pale forearm.  This is the nicest entryway I’ve ever set foot in.  Which isn’t saying much, considering my poor, simple, country upbringing. 

 

Earlier:

        The fact that I’m even standing here on this plush rug, in front of these glistening doors, is fortuitous.  And amazing.

I’ve only been out of West Virginia three times in my life.  Before today.

        Once was in my mother’s womb, which barely counts, since I have zero recollection of the event.  Understandably. 

       My birth certificate, denoting start of life in Cumberland, MD, the closest legit hospital to my trailer park home, the only one I’ve ever known, is the lone token from that inaugural experience.  At least I wasn’t born in a bloody mess on our dirty futon couch like my older twin brothers.

        We have taken one actual vacation thus far during my childhood, to the Shendnoah Valley of Virginia.  This trip was funded by prize winnings my father earned for best hog at the local county fair.  His precious possession, for a few long years of my life; this fat pig ate better than any of the humans in our family during that grooming period. 

       I doubt the meager contest payout made up for all the money and time spent raising that chubby animal, but my brothers and I we’re about to turn down the opportunity for adventure that materialized.

       I vividly remember swimming across the flowing river, climbing in the tall trees, and playing around the glowing fire, from sundown to sunset, for an entire week in a new environ.  At age 7, during the warmest month in the mid-Atlantic, staying clean and clothed weren’t priorities.  Damn, that was a fun summer.

        The most recent departure from my home state was to visit my dying grandmother at a senior living community in the suburbs of Pittsburg, PA.  Occurring last winter, considering the inert condition of this feeble old lady, this trek turned out to be part seance and part funeral.  The entire long weekend was deeply religious and extremely stressful; my first experience watching someone die in real time.  Needless to say, it wasn’t a very fun event. 

      Seeing the living conditions my matriarch, a few generations back, was subjected too down the final stretch was telling.  The complex was completely disheveled, with meager amenities, and a borderline penitentiary management system.  With the government health care system as her only source of support, options were clearly limited. 

        I’m resolved to never put myself, or my future family, God be willing, in that undesirable position during my latter years.  Which is the main reason I’ve traveled here, from the quite country to the big city, hoping to forge a new path. 

       Hopefully, this recently initiated second decade of my life will be a little more enjoyable than the prior one.  Now, I’m finally on a true quest, debatably the first of my young life. 

       I don’t consider weekend fishing hikes to the local stream, or deer hunting jaunts in the neighboring woods, both with incredibly early wake-up calls, and endless hours of inert silence, luxury vacations.  I know from discrete chats with my mother, often as we console each other in bed after a bout of crying, that the only other woman in our broken household agrees. 

        Unfortunately, these are the only excursions which my father, and by extension our entire male-dominated family of 5, partake in, considering our meager means.

 

Embarking:

       My recollection of childhood adventures, paltry as they have been, is interrupted by a loud and ringing chime.  Which is much appreciated.  I prefer to live in the present, as opposed to the past.  Especially today.

         Shifting my gaze upward, which requires arching my entire back, as opposed to just manipulating my eyes, I see the number “1” is illuminated, the digit located at the far-right side of the arcing display.  My means of transport to the heavens has arrived.

        This is one of the rare times when my scrawny physique proves to be a benefit.  Giddy with anticipation, I’m moving even before the gate starts to open.  My timing in impeccable, as I slip through the slowly enlarging crack, fortunately now unencumbered from my backpack, which would have hindered this slick maneuver.

       My slight feet cross over from soft carpet to firm tile.  The atmospheric experience also changes, transitioning from cool and floral to warm and clammy.

    Meanwhile, another transition is happening, one which I didn’t take any time to consider.  There are already individuals in the elevator, who are getting off at this floor.  Duh.  This is the ground level, the bottom of the line, where all activity converges. 

     Just after penetrating the narrow gap, I run directly into an incredibly sturdy obstruction.  Immediately repelled, transitioning back from solid to soft, stuffy to scented, finding myself lying flat on my back, staring straight upward into the brilliantly lit chandelier above.  Whoops.

      Looking around in startled confusion, I’m slowly able to determine what happened.  My encountered barricade turns out to be a gentleman, clad in a charcoal gray, 3-piece, suit.  I’ve charged through tree trunks playing wilderness tag which are less robust than his oaken thigh. 

     My butler chaperone, who hasn’t moved an inch until now, lifts me up with a gentle but firm grasp under my armpits.  Suddenly, I’m vertical again, and whisked sideways, catching a glimpse of swishing grey cloth atop matte black leather, and shimmering white satin floating above pointy red heels. 

      My stammered apology is outmatched by the louder, more coherent, and less emotionally charged utterance of my de facto caretaker.  By the time I fully recover my faculties, the muscular aristocrat, and who I can only assume was his slender model date, are gone.  Maybe someday, I’ll be on the opposite side of this classy ledger.

   Slinking into the now empty chamber, which I previously yearned to enter, half dragged and half ushered, I contemplate curling up in the corner and crying.  Then resolve to be strong. 

       Soft sobbing back home has never gotten me anything, aside from another set of bruises.  I’m on my own, embarking on an amazing adventure, so should act as such.  I need to be classier, smarter, and savvier, than my generational priors, if I’m going to escape the inexorable loop of ineptitude. 

        It’s impressive that I’m able to grasp this simple fact, representing both a curse and an opportunity, at just 11 years of age.  We’re forced to grow up quick in the rural West Virginia hills.  Maybe there’s hope.  If all goes well today, this could be the faint glimmer of light I’ve been searching for. 

        I’ll put myself in the corner for once.  I just need a few seconds to regain my fragile composure.

     The bellhop bully presses one of the highest buttons on the orthogonal panel layout, and suddenly we’re being whisked upwards on a complex network of invisible linked mechanisms.  This mode of aerial ascent is highly efficient, much smoother, and way more rapid, than my tree fort climbing pursuits back home.  Though I don’t get the same adrenaline rush in here when I look down.

 

Engagement:

        As the noise of my pulsing heart finally dips below a dull roar, I’m able to notice other sounds in this small space.  Quickly perceptible are the subtle tones pulsing through the ceiling mounted speakers.  Elevator music.  My body could use some soothing calming, but these dulcet notes might put me to sleep. 

       With essentially ubiquitous access to music these days, of all forms and styles, it’s surprising classy facilities like this can’t come up with more novel offerings to distract their trapped patrons.  Granted, there are plenty of other entertainment opportunities in this modern age, especially for those folks with a streaming media device, and a good pair of ear buds.

       Even I have transitioned from archaic broadcast radio to a personal music player, using a tiny electronic item handed down from one of my brothers.  Both this small but heavy rectangle of circuity, and the tangled cord headphones which plug into the port, are currently stashed in my bag.  With a meager battery that crapped out hours ago on the bus ride here, this formerly functional means of auditory stimulation is now just dead weight.

       I’m apparently still too young to own a cellphone.  Based on my father’s constant swearing into his device, the only such technologically advanced unit our family owns, I’m not sure I want to incur such a hassle. 

      Someday in the future, these padded elevator walls will undoubtably be plastered with brand advertisements, event posters, and digital screens.  Actually, a TV with some live sports on, or even a daytime soap opera, would be a welcome reprieve from the monotonous drone of operatic hymns they’re serenading us with currently. 

       At least I’ve recovered my energy and confidence.  I’m ready for the next challenge, which will hopefully make this upward journey a bit more lively.

       As if sending an omen, our rate of vertical travel slows, resulting in a momentary sensation of weightlessness on my slight body.  After a brief bout of frustration, this ride is already starting to get fun again.  Yippie.       

     Sensing my moment of opportunity, I slowly shift from the back corner of the cube, to a strategic post directly adjacent to the sliding doors, and even more importantly, the array of controls which command their functionality. 

      Hoping to avoid drawing attention from my chaperone, I examine the format out through the side of my left eye.  This is a visual tact I’ve perfected to evade scolding from my oft-prying family members. 

        There are 10 rows with 3 buttons each, summing to 30 total options, if my menial arithmetic skills are correct.  Math isn’t one of my strong suits.  Or English, for that matter.  In fact, I doubt I’m above average in any traditional school subject.  Again, poor genealogy.

         Fortunately, there’s a key distinction between smart and savvy, intellectual and inventive.  One skill set works in the educational realm, the other plays better in the real world.  I’m decidedly in the latter camp.  Survival is more important than science, based on my brief lifetime sample set.

        Accordingly, I take stock of the situation.  The blocky digital display above the network of circular dots shows that we’re arriving at the 4th floor.  Only menial progress upward has been made.  Why are we stopping so soon?

       The answer comes when I examine text notes associated with a few key levels of this building, which are written below the main panel.  I don’t know what most of these codes mean, but a few terse terms stand out.

       The abbreviation denoting where we’re about to stop is a trio of letters which I’m intimately familiar with.  My second favorite class in elementary school behind art.  “GYM”.  It’s weird that they would have such a chaotic facility in this sophisticated high rise.  I’m intrigued to see who comes aboard. 

      The crew which comes aboard turns out to be a trio of ladies, all tall and trim.  Their stretchy, minimal attire confirms there is a workout facility housed on this level.  While I’m briefly intrigued by why this cohort would be hanging out in a luxury apartment building, my monitor, the only other adult in this cozy space, is fortunately even more distracted.  By the inherent beauty of this sexy crew. 

 

Erratic:

        I need to use this momentary distraction to my advantage.  Now is my chance for glory.

    Though it’s clear my bellhop host is stronger and more skilled than me, I’m not going to let him win every engagement.  I’m resolved to enjoy the simple pleasure I hoped to achieve back in the lobby.  Pressing the button which puts this magical lift in motion.

         Seizing my opportunity, I dart forward, and press the button for #12, the age I will turn on my next birthday, which therefore is the numeral foremost in my innocent mind.  Seeing my sabotage is still unnoticed, I select another value, one level up, and well to the left, of my original offering.  #13, a lucky number in many books and movies I’ve absorbed.  I need all the luck I can get.

        This second ignition has caught the attention, not just of my keeper, but from everyone now in this boxy chariot.  I’m preparing to be scolded, and contemplate engaging a higher row before the inevitable verbal reprimanding arrives.  Maybe I can drag my hand across a trifecta of buttons at once.

        However, as sweet voice from the shortest, and curviest, of the exercise trio immediately brings me back into my best behavior.  That stern yet soft tone immediately evokes memories of my 4th grade teacher.

         “26th floor please” rings through the space in a whimsical yet wise tone.  This order is mesmerizing, especially when delivered from a sculpted sphynx, with an arsenal of aesthetic features which I can only dream of having as I progress through my adolescent years.

          This siren’s summons is so alluring that I execute the command instantly, which requires reach up above my head, to touch the center button just one row from the top of the ledger.  No need to check the math, I trust my observational over my analytical skills. 

        While, I’ve just surpassed the 4.5 – foot mark in height, which puts me squarely at the average for my age and gender, I’m by no means a physical specimen.  Scrawny, due to borderline malnourishment throughout my upbringing.  Blemished skin and bruised flesh, resulting from both my own uncoordinated gaffs and targeted bodily attacks.  Uninspiring facial features, clearly genetically transferred through ugly ancestors to my plain parents.  

          Tapping the ringed numeral “26” as requested, the halo lights up on just the slightest touch.  Successful execution.  Which is much more productive than my previous random jabbing spree.

           There’s only one other illuminated dot above my recent meddling; the 30th floor, denoted by the top right corner, where my savior is awaiting.  We’ll get there soon enough, if no more commoners board my reserved means of transport.  It’s been a long journey already, so I can afford to wait a few more minutes.  I plan to relish every moment of my experience here in the nation’s capital.

 

Exhibition:

        Anticipating the pending meeting at the top of this building, I check my outfit, again leveraging the brilliant shine of the polished steel doors, this time on the inside of the elevator. 

       I’m wearing a robin’s egg blue dress, fittingly with light brown silhouettes of a generic bird in flight.  On my small feet are black tap shoes, scuffed in spots but still presentable, with frilly cuff white socks underneath. 

        My dirty blonde hair is in a pair of braids down my back, which I can’t easily check without twirling around, thereby looking like a diva in front of these adults.  Thus, I refrain.  Hopefully, the lengthy trek to get here hasn’t mussed up my hairdo too much.  The front visible in the reflection looks presentable enough.   

        Being the youngest child, and only daughter, I usually don’t get much say or selection regarding my attire.  I’m fine adopting the Tomboy persona, but there’s something to be said for taking a warm bath, having mom help untangle my increasingly long locks, then putting on my finest frock.  I only have two presentable options, one which I’m about to grown out of, the other which I still need to grow into.

       While this grooming luxury is usually reserved for Sunday morning before church, when my father isn’t too hung over, and our only vehicle, a rusty pick-up truck, is functional enough for us to pile aboard and roll into town.

        However, this is a Friday, in the early afternoon, and I’m well over 100 miles from my shanty home. 

        I’m here to meet with my great uncle, Mr. Otis E. Graves, an enigmatic and aloof individual.  He apparently has lots of money.  No one in my large extended family, and by extension, me, has any idea how this fortune was amassed. 

     There’s all manner of swirling rumors, from influential politician, to real estate mogul, to trade lobbyist.  Most theories are based on this man’s multi-decade proximity to Washington, DC.  And all these postulations are speculative and unsubstantiated.

       I’m not about to ask any prying questions of this gentleman, considering how well I’ve been treated by this cryptic character thus far. 

      The letter requesting my attendance at the corporate headquarters which Mr. Graves presides over arrived in our dented mailbox just this past Monday.  It’s amazing that only 4 days have passed since that transformational event, at least relative to most other occurrences over my simple existence.  For all I know, similar summons are made to lucky children across the country on a weekly basis. 

       The parcel was a shiny white envelope, adorned with a beautiful animal picture stamp, and my name hand written above our mobile home unit’s address in calligraphy font.  My wonder regarding the presentation was amplified when I opened the seal, and discovered what lay inside.

       A touching note penned by my great uncle, I assume, who I only know in name, and have never met in person.  However, the tone and language of the letter, several words of which I needed my mother to help me interpret, read as if we had known each other my entire short life.

          Also included was an unlimited bus pass, which enable my travel here to the bustling city center. 

         What a gift.  I’m giddier than Charlie after discovering a golden ticket from Willy Wonka in his chocolate bar.  This is a film I know well, as my household is still on the archaic VHS system, making movies from the 1970’s well within my informational purview.   

 

Expedition:

        Albeit, my travel day, which started way too early, and took way too long, wasn’t exactly pleasurable.  Fortunately, the excitement-fueled adrenaline of the unknown allowed me to power through. 

        The truck ride from Romney, WV to Winchester, VA was OK.  It’s the longest that my father and I have been in the car together alone.  At least I got to sit on the far side of the bench seat, up against the passenger side door.  Almost out of his prying eyes and probing reach.

        There’s wasn’t a lot of conversation during the hour-long predawn journey.  I could tell from the chilling silence in the cab that he wasn’t happy about enabling my expedition.  But for once, my mother put her foot down.  This opportunity was just too good for her only daughter, and the family as a whole, to pass up.

         Mostly, I just stared out the window at the bouncing headlights reflecting off dense brush along the roadside.  As we neared Winchester, a booming metropolis as compared to my country lifestyle, the roadside streetlights and rising sun conspired to illuminate increasingly larger buildings along the widening highway.  

         The transit hub proved to be right in the center of town, adjacent to a few official-looking brick buildings, which I took to house some elements of the local government.  Almost before the bald tires had come to a stop, I’d pulled my backpack off the threadbare bench seat, and turned the creaky handle to open the door. 

         A terse “Thanks” in my most adult voice was met with a guttural grunt from my dad.  As soon as I slammed the heavy door shut, an impact so solid it caused flecks of rust to become dislodged from the exterior panel, the old pick-up was peeling away in a cloud of pungent black exhaust smoke.

          Apparently, I was on my own for the rest of this journey.  Good riddance.

          According to the instructions which accompanied my ticket, I needed to board a bus headed south on highway I-81, switch to a local line for a few stops, then take the long commuter shuttle eastbound on I-66 all the way to the Capital. 

      These logistics sounded easy enough on paper, but proved more difficult in reality, considering my non-existent knowledge of the area’s roads, towns, routes, of other relevant waypoints. 

        Fortunately, my childish appearance, and general vibe of confusion, which wasn’t an act, helped lure in friendly folks to guide me along the way.  The further I got on my trip, the more confidence I gained.  Also, the number of mass transit participants increased substantial as we closed in on the big city, providing plenty of marks to ask for directions.   

        As my final means of public transportation neared Washington, DC, I started to recognize buildings from my recent schooling, specifically lessons on American history.  I couldn’t recall the names for any of these structures, but their unique architectural elements, curving domes, vertical columns, and blocky limestone, all seemed tangentially familiar. 

        I alighted at Union Station just after noon, according to the huge clock hanging in the rafters.  5 hours, on 3 buses, was a haul, but my euphoria carried me through without even noticing various the inconveniences of this length trek.

         My summoner also provided me with a $20 bill, with a business card paperclipped to it.  Slowly my making my way outside, my diminutive stature weaving carefully between the taller encumbrances which represented grown adults, I finally found the cab line.  The single green note proved just enough to get me a private ride to my current address, just 5 minutes from the massive station hub. 

         That’s how found myself in this ornate lobby, and pristine elevator, on this lovely fall afternoon.

 

Examination:

      It turns out this building, and the mechanical lift which transports people between various levels, is quite popular.  It seems like every few floors we stop, either to onboard or unload patrons, and sometimes both.

      I’ve given up trying to read what amenities are on each story, since my view to the display panel becomes increasingly blocked as more participants join on.  Plus, people watching is more fun than sign reading anyways. 

     How many persons and possessions can this metal cage hold?  Are there sensors to identify if the weight limit is exceeded?  My slight frame and meager pack isn’t adding too much in the mass department, but a few of the elevator entrants are decidedly larger. 

        Based on the diversity of appearances and outfits in this collection, this building seems to be a mixed-use operation, with retail, office, and residential units all intermixed.  Aside from the trio of exercising ladies, most folks are smartly dressed, or at least presentable enough to venture out in public.  I’m able to make some guesses about each joining collective as we ascend. 

     A pair of businessmen, in neatly tailored suits, who are engaged in hushed conversation, which is completely unintelligible to me.  Even if I was right next to them, I doubt I would be able to understand their undoubtably sophisticated conversation.

       A trio of couples, though it’s not clear who is with who, carrying what must be leftovers from lunch, based on the savory aroma which follows them.  This scent reminds me I have eaten anything of substance all day.

       An old lady, with a hunched back, who requires a walker to aid her incredibly slow movement into the elevator.  We’re never going to make it to the penthouse at this rate.

     Having spent my entire short life growing up in the rural south, under strict religious tenants, I have a solid understanding of proper manners. 

         Aside from that recent transgression with the elevator buttons.  For which I was politely scolded by the burly butler.  No harm was done, or extra delay incurred, as we ended up servicing the 12th and 13th floors on our way up anyways. 

        Don’t speak unless your spoken to.  Always say please and thank you.  Avoid staring at others. 

        Which turns out to be quite difficult in these tight quarters.  Especially when compelling new personalities enter and exit the elevator at each stop.  I’m provided with a new physical stimulation every 15 seconds, based on the rapid turnover on this long journey upward to the hallowed perch.

        I’ve never seen such fancy dresses and formal suits, glimmering jewelry and gold watches, bulky suitcases and bougie handbags.  The only way for my childish and prying eyes to avoid disobeying the preaching of my upbringing is to look straight down at the floor.  Which offers up its own collection of compelling attire accoutrements.

       Covering these fancy folk’s feet are all manner of amazing items.  Stiletto heels which seem to defy gravity, or at least functionality.  Custom branded sneakers, with logos and colors that perfectly match the rest of the wearer’s bold ensemble.  Wingtip dress shoes so shiny I can see my reflection in them, provided I stare inappropriately.

      With my occasionally abusive father, and perpetually scolding mother, not in the picture, I guess I can sin a little.  Considering my current life trajectory, I don’t have much to lose.  Maybe I can befriend a rich heiress, or swanky businessman, who will take me in.  These dreams occur frequently in the slum conditions back home, but never have they felt as tangible as today. 

         This is my chance.  If this slow ride ever reaches the summit terminus.           

 

Energetic:

      My childish metabolism and mannerisms are not comfortable with static inertness.  I’m used to frolicking through the fields, paddling in the pond, and wandering around the woods.  No such natural entertainment elements present themselves in this cloistered environ.               

       I’ve spent my recent years outside, often engaged on a singular activity.  Thin and spry, for essentially all of my brief 11 revolutions of Planet Earth around the Sun, my physique is built for climbing.  While rural West Virginia is renowned for the Allegheny Mountains, part of the Appalachian Range, which spans most of America’s East Coast, my scrambling adventures are much more localized. 

       Scaling the scraggly and thorny crabapple trees which surround the trailer park I call home.  This region used to be a functional orchard, providing a sweet input for various tasty snacks and beverages.  Now, us hungry local children are the only ones who consume this increasingly tart, quick to go rotten, fruit, which falls this time of year from knotty, dying branches. 

       This grove allows me to escape school, my parents, chores, and even firm ground.  The snarled limbs transition, from impenetrable wall, to a homey cage, the higher and nearer the trunk I get.  While the gaps I’m forced to squeeze through are much smaller than our bodily spacing here in the increasingly crowded elevator, this experience seems much more claustrophobic. 

       It must just be because we’re inside as opposed to outside; air stagnant and sticky as opposed to fresh and flowing.  Or maybe it’s the lack of control I have; trapped here within a solid metal chamber, rather than protected by a dense nest of wood.

      Unfathomably, after just a few minutes stuck on this elevator, albeit much higher than any apple tree in the old orchard back home grows, my senses are incredibly heightened and on edge.  I’m clearly out of my element, in more ways than one.

         Another contributing factor to my agitation is a gift provided by the nice lady at the lobby front desk, who I assume is my great uncle’s secretary.  She gave this item to me upon arrival, when I presented the business card which represented my admission ticket.  A bag of candy, most of which I’ve already consumed, in just 20 stories of halting ascension.

      These sweet treats, wrapped in colorful foil, neatly twisted at both ends, melt magically in my mouth, each one exuding a different fruity flavor which mimics the hue of the packaging.  Such tender morsels are a far cry from the rock-hard, burnt-caramel, orbs I’m sometimes able to snag during rare holiday gatherings with family.

       The sugar rush, combined with the change in elevation, is probably why my small but powerful heart is currently beating out of my thin but healthy chest cavity.  Again.

 

Engineering:

      I have no idea how any elements of this impressive elevator operation work.  I envision an incredibly complex network of cables and pulleys, gears and shafts, switches and levers, motors and brakes.  My father’s job as a small engineer mechanic, when he makes it into work, has left us with all manner of unique mechanical components lying around our cluttered homestead.

         These items would typically be stored in a watertight shed.  Which we don’t have. 

        Thus, this hulking collection of metal and rubber, reeking of gas and oil, is piled under a holey tarp, which occupies a substantial portion of our meager yard.  That’s why I spend most of my time playing in the nearby abandoned apple grove, or the expansive corn fields planted adjacent. 

      This complex crane system must have some electronic basis.  What would happen if the power goes out?  Access to electricity at our mobile home complex is spotty, even before the frequent evening thunder storms.  Here, at a fancy high rise, in a bustling metropolis, they must have redundant electrical systems, and emergency protocols, to keep us from getting stranded. 

      I wouldn’t get anywhere near a lawnmower or chainsaw serviced by my daddy.  And those pieces of equipment are meant to be operated on solid ground.  Hopefully the technicians who service this elevator are much more skilled and competent.  If the rest of this classy building staff is representative, I’m in good hands while being pulled vertically aloft. 

       Still, I can’t shake the thought of getting marooned in this box, stationary, and maybe even in the dark.  That scenario would really test my coping skills.  Maybe I should have just taken the stairs.  Powered by sugar, 30 flights would be nothing, even on my diminutive legs.

 

Extroversion:

        As the sluggish elevator journey drags on, conversation within the cabin starts to wane, from vigorous discussions, to witty banter, to idle chit-chat.  Which is fine by me, as it creates space for my mind to wander, as a growing child’s cranium is prone to do.

       There’s an odd anomaly that pleasurable times move quickly, and boring times become sluggish.  This experiential phenomenon is especially evident amongst kids, like myself.  Classroom versus recess.  Dinner versus dessert.  Car rides versus carnival rides.

      While I’m decidedly on vacation, hopped up on candy, and venturing on a novel contraption, nothing about this current experience is fun.  Probably because I’m encircled by adults.  Which evokes memories of teachers and preachers, Sunday dinner with an inbred extended family, and fighting parents in a fickle pick-up.

       Right after I realized I could talk, later than most at age 5, I realized I couldn’t be less functional socially.  Which makes my decision to avoid uttering a sound right now easy.  However, surrounded by grown-ups, in prison-esque setting, I know it’s only a matter of time before these old and bored folks, many of whom clearly don’t know each other, based on their lack of friendly banter, seek out an easy mark. 

         A small, innocent child.  Like me.

        The crappy music, which was previously tingling my ears, and gnawing at my bones, may now be my savior.  If full silence starts up, I’ll definitely be immediately inundated by these aged adults.  

         Maybe I just need another piece of taffy, to calm my nerves, and spark some extroversion. 

       As I peruse the crowd in this confined space, I realize many of the occupants, skew heavily towards the younger cohort, are wearing some form of headphones.  A wise decision, considering the other audio options.  Maybe I should fish mine out to my pack, put them over my ears, and pretend I’m contently engaged, even though my electronic player is completely dead.

 

Endgame:

        As the lift slowly rises, the crowed space slowly empties.  My exercise gals disembark at the 26th floor as summoned.  The last restaurant duo, confirming their budding relationship by holding hands as they exit with their leftovers, leaves at the next stop. 

        All of the sudden, I’m now essentially alone in this space, which is starting to feel spacious again.  The only people left are my ground level leach, and the elderly lady who onboarded mid-way, at what I’ve determined houses both a doctor’s office and a therapeutic spa.  This old bag could clearly use treatment from both such facilities, considering her lack of mobility. 

        With elevator occupancy waning, I’m running out of places to hide.  So much for secretly observing others, while avoiding any actual human interaction.  

       As it turns out, I could have eaten an entire bag of chocolate, and not be prepared for the conversion which is initiated.  By the ancient woman with the walker.  Our chat is decidedly one-sided, her inquiries pleasant yet probing, my answers terse and tense. 

          When is this old bag getting off?  How much longer until I can make my escape? 

      Checking our location via the lit numerals above the button array, I see we’re almost to the penthouse.  This remaining elder must have gotten confused, likely a combination of dyslexia and poor vision.  She’ll no doubt be headed back downstairs to the common levels as soon as I depart to my lofty landing.

          The pinnacle row on the elevator’s wall layout is decidedly above my eyeline.  However, that raised position doesn’t stop me from watching intently as the “30” numeral goes dark.  This visual identification, combined with a metallic ding, quieter than when I boarded many minutes ago, denotes arrival.  And suggests the signal chime is mounted on the outer hallway.

          At last, I’ve reached my desired destination.  The highest floor in this beautiful building. 

         My newly minted comrade and I have had a tumultuous journey, albeit a short one, but we part amicably.  This big black man helps me shoulder my grimy backpack, then gives me a gentle pat on the head, and soft shove from the elevator tiles onto the wooden paneled corridor.

         I hesitate briefly, despite this physical provocation.  It’s feels like I’m Neil Armstrong, stepping off the ladder of the lander onto the surface of the Moon.

       My back suddenly feels stiff.  Has my rucksack gotten heavier due to the elevation change?  My stomach becomes queasy.  Did I eat too much candy?  My throat is very dry.  Will I be able to intelligibly speak to my great uncle when I meet him?

        Already in rarified air, elevated and elated, there’s only one way to find out.  One women’s size 5 clad shoe foot at a time, I step forward slowly into the unknown, whispering “Hello Mr. Graves” over and over. 

       In my meditative stupor, I fail to notice the other individual who has disembarked at this penthouse suite.  The chatty old crone who is apparently stalking me. 

       How did I not perceive the harsh scraping of hard rubber walker wheels on meticulously waxed soft timber flooring?  Or see the numerous parallel marks leading from the elevator exit to the apartment entrance? 

       Suddenly, all the pieces of this crazily puzzling past week come together in my sluggish mind.  Fate has conspired to trick me yet again.  Maybe fortuitously, for once.

        Should I just call my new ancestral acquaintance Otis, now that I’ve already met his wife?