An Interrupted Ascent

Monday, April 14th, 9:56 a.m.

Johnny Atlas leaves his cubicle and speed-walks down the aisle, past the water stand and the receptionist’s desk, doing his utmost to avoid eye contact with his talkative coworkers. He is on his way up. Up the building, up the ranks, up the corporate ladder. And with each step away from the bland walls and stale lights of the office where he has spent the last 344 weekdays of his boring life, Johnny feels more and more like he is floating. Now is his chance to escape the dregs of the bottom floor and rise to greater influence and renown. With several manilla folders clutched under his left arm, and a fancy (he hopes) new sports coat hung over his right, he arrives at the elevator. 

The grand old elevator is a beacon to Johnny, a source of hope and motivation. And, incidentally, it is the only attractive object on his floor. The doors are bronze-plated and engraved with intricate spiral and whorl patterns. The button which calls the elevator is ruby red, and its cover plate is fashioned similarly to the doors. The previous occupant of the building was an old-fashioned hotel, and the elevator is the last remnant of the hotel’s regal styling. Johnny’s employer ignored the doors when remodeling the building, and he is ever grateful for that oversight. 

Johnny arrives before the elevator and presses the button, summoning the car to his floor. He cracks his knuckles nervously, then glances at his wristwatch. He has just 2 minutes and 44 seconds to ride up to the 7th floor for his 10 AM presentation. This is his big chance. 

A tone sounds and the doors slide slowly open before Johnny. He steps onto the worn red carpet floor, presses the button for the seventh floor, and peers out the doors, hoping no one else needs to use the elevator. As the doors grind together, Johnny breathes a sigh of relief. He checks his watch once more. “Only 2 minutes and 29 seconds. This is going to be tight.”  

Beside him, on the top right corner of the elevator’s left wall, the floor indicator changes from 2 to 3. Johnny opens the folder under his left arm and flips through the sheets of paper, checking that everything he needs for his presentation is still there. It's all there, just like it was 20 seconds ago. 

The elevator rises past the 4th floor. Johnny admires its magnifecent, stately, paneling. He has an affinity for 18th century style. “The conference room is down the hall, then I take the first right, then the second door on the left. Down the hall, first right, second left. Down the hall first left second right. Wait, crap!” Johnny looks at his watch again. It reads 9:58. “Could this confounded elevator move any slower!” 

With a shudder and a jolt, the elevator grinds to a halt, and in the same moment, the lights wink out. In the enclosed space of the elevator, it is pitch black. Johnny loses his balance and tumbles to the floor, spilling his papers and dropping his jacket. As he falls, his head smacks against the hand railing. Crying out in anguish, Johnny lays limp on the floor, clutching the bruise forming. “Well, at least I don’t have to worry about my presentation.” 

He stays on the floor for a while, then, gathering a little bit of resolve, stands up. “Not a good idea! Stood up too fast.” He slumps back to the floor, holding his head. Once the wave of dizziness passes, Johnny pulls himself to his feet again and feels around for the doors. Of course, they are firmly stuck shut. Pointlessly, he tries pressing the floor buttons, knowing they will do nothing. He wonders how long he will have to remain trapped in this tiny cell. He starts to check the time on his watch, but realizes the futility of it. And, by Grabthar’s Hammer, he left his phone at his desk. Doing some mental guesstimations, he arrives at the conclusion that 15 minutes have passed since the power cut off. 

“Aw, fudge! What if the elevator falls? Somebody better get me the hell out of here.” Despite the obvious unlikeliness of being rescued until the power is restored, Johnny pounds his fists on the doors and yells for help. But, since the elevator shaft is at the end of a hallway and in between levels, his pleas fall on deaf ears. 

Johnny remembers he is claustrophobic. The darkness adopts a heavy air, like how he always imagined dark matter would feel. Cold, close, and compacting. He feels panic rising in his chest, and flails his arm about, searching for the crack in the door. He locates the thin gap between the two sliding doors, trying once more to pry them apart, but his fingers find no purchase on the slick metal. He attempts this several more times before leaning against the wall and slumping to the floor. Running his fingers through his hair, Johnny discovers he is sweating excessively. He unbuttons his shirt to cool down. He grabs his shock of blond hair and pulls with both hands, suddenly feeling afraid. 

Then, an idea pops into his head. What if, like in so many spy movies, there is a trapdoor in the roof? He could escape the elevator and climb up to the next floor. No matter that if the power suddenly returns, he could be crushed by the moving elevator. He cannot spend another minute in this prison. Scrambling to his feet, Johnny uses the handrails as a foothold, balancing precariously in the corner while groping along the ceiling for a trapdoor. He feels every groove, every indentation, pressing now and then in hopes that one will be the catch that releases the door. 

After a time Johnny’s arms and legs get sore from what feels like hours of searching blindly. He hops down from the handrail, twisting his right ankle and tumbling to the floor. He spits out an impressively profuse torrent of curses. Striking out in anger and pain, he rams his right fist into the wall, splitting his knuckles and releasing a stream of blood. He lays on the carpet and stares into the blackness. His ankle and hand are in intense pain, so he tries to take his mind off the pain by figuring how long he has been in the elevator. “Must be at least a couple hours by now,” he mumbles. 

Johnny sits up and repositions himself into a corner. He begins counting off seconds. “One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four one-thousand, five one-thousand, seven one-thousand, eight one-thousand. Ah, screw it.” His ankle still hurts. “Why try.” Johnny drums his fingers on the floor. Whistles an off-key tune. Cracks his knuckles. “Fudge!” His busted knuckles still hurt too. 

All of a sudden, emotion wells up in Johnny, and he starts crying. Softly at first, then louder and louder. He continues in this for a space, letting the feeling wash through him, then slaps himself and jumps to his feet. 

“I’ve been in here for hours, maybe even the whole day, and no one has come to my rescue. Who knows how long this could last? What if a storm knocks out the lines? Or someone with a bone to pick sabotaged the power plants. Maybe China detonated an EMP over the US! I could be here indefinitely. Let’s see, how long did that survival show say a human could survive without food? Two, three weeks? People are probably looting and rioting in the streets. Who’s going to come looking for me?” 

Johnny yanks his hair again, then punches the wall with his unhurt hand, cutting it open. “Ahhhh!” I could go blind from the lack of light. Or starve. Or die of thirst!” He cries out for help again, but still it seems as if no one has heard him. 

Abruptly, the lights flicker back on and the elevator grinds back into motion, carrying Johnny upwards. A few seconds later, he hears a ding and the doors slide open. Johnny steps out, forgetting his things on the floor of the elevator. Then, to his left, he hears his boss’s voice. “What the hell happened to you, Johnny? The power was only out for 35 minutes!”