The Elevator

It's a jolt and then it stops. And it's more than enough to make their hearts stop too.

There’s an invisible intensity that builds up in a matter of second. This awareness of a specific nightmare is about to come true in any given moment is more horrifying than the real nightmare. This unseen anticipation frights them and they both stare at each other. A suspicious sound is dinging from the background. It dings innocently which make the circumstances somehow worst.

"It's not supposed to do that, right?" The man asks himself.

"Shit." He said out loud. He then continues to press the panic button to make it do something. But nothing happens because nothing always happens.

"Oh my God? Are we stuck here?" The man detects a hint of panic from the woman's voice. This realization makes him to push the button more eagerly and rapidly. He hates when people start to panic because it makes him unconsciously participates in the same cycle of hysteria.

"We are stuck, aren't we?" Now she's yelling. "Oh my God! Oh my God! I can't do this." She starts her panic mode and takes a couple of deep breath. She looks like she's choking. At this rate, the man starts to worry because this girl breathes too fast like a woman in a middle of labor.

"Okay, okay. Sshh, sshh, sshh." The man tries to calm her down. "You're doing good. You're… just… great. Just… breath."

The woman continues with her erratic wheezing. "No…. I can't…. I can't breathe!" They both are trying to calm each other, but they appear to be horrible about it. The woman drops her folders. She's choked.

"Oh no. What am I going to do?".

This is crazy. This is not what anybody wants to happen to their day. This elevator is jam, this woman is having an asthma attack, and there's nothing he can do about it. This is not making any sense. Everything is too far-fetched. This woman can die here and there's nothing he can do about it. 

Then, something insane pops up and it's the only logical thing that he can think of. "Should I sing?"

He sings.

He's not so much of a singer. He's not even sure that it'll work. His voice trembles a couple of times. He's filled with doubts and desperation and it manifests in his voice. He pauses a couple of times just to see if it's working. He tries to be jolly, but sometimes his voice doesn’t allow him to be. He pronounces every word truly for the sake of this lady's recovery.

All of sudden, her breath starts to have a proper tempo. "Good, good. This is working. We're good.” The heavy breathing stops and the singing stops. They exchange a stare and the nightmare feels a little manageable. Now, it's the man's turn to take a deep breath.

"I think we're stuck." The man tries to assure the young lady with his supposedly calming voice. "Don't worry. They'll know that we're here."

"How do you know? How do you even…"

"This is peak hour." He interrupted her. "They'll know that there's one elevator that is not working. Besides they have cameras." He pointed them. "You work here?" She nods. "Someone is going to notice that you're missing. We'll be fine."

The man picks the dropped folders and gives back to the lady.

"Thank you," she said.

The woman starts to collect her own observation about the man. He's old and charming. His hair is graying in a specific way that every slinky old man somehow always does. He wears a watch that probably made from ebony. It's probably his thing to wear some eccentric collections. This type of man has always been a little late with their life. They were late in their high school. They were late in their college. They were also late in their 20s. But, boy oh boy, second chance does exist.

"Shit. My phone died. Do you bring yours?"

"I left it on my desk." She's sounded desperate.

They are quiet for a couple of moment. Both of them try to not stare at each other. They focus their attention to one angle at a time.

"I'm sorry about before," she said. "It's a claustrophobia. When the space is too…"

"I know what it is." He interrupts her. "My daughter used to have it."

"She's got help?" He doesn’t answer.

The quiet takes over once again. This time it lingers longer than they wish for. The man starts to sit himself on the floor.

"Look. I think it's going to take a while. You better sit down." She joins the man and they both sit in a silence. The silence starts to feel annoying and the air feels a little warmer.

"I don’t think I've seen you before. Do you work here?" She asked.

"No, I don’t. It's my wife." He starts to take off his jacket. "She works here. She's actually… the Head of Design."

"Mrs. Dease?" She looks surprised.

"Yeah. That's right."

"So, you must be Mr. Dease?" The man nods.

They get quiet again.

"Aren’t you too young to be working here?" The man asked.

"Excuse me?" There's a hint of alertness in her voice.

"I don’t mean…. It's just… it… well, I've been in this office a couple of times. Most of them are pretty… old."

"I am old," she replied. "It’s a new policy, I guess. I think they're trying to… hmm… diversify themselves."

"Diversi…? Oh! Jesus," he scoffs.

"What?"

"It's joke. It's what it is," said the man. "This whole building is joke."

"What do you mean? This building is one of the most well-designed office in the city." She starts to feel a little irritated by the disparaging remark. She doesn’t exactly understand why because she knows that she doesn’t put much of a care about the building itself.

"Yeah. And more reason to call it a joke actually. "

Again, the silence takes over the spotlight. Then, the man starts to chuckle to himself. It is a gentle chuckle. "Tsk, I shouldn’t come here. I shouldn’t come to this stupid building."

"What did you come?"

"It's my wife."

"What? She forgot her lunch box?" The woman giggles to her own joke. But the man doesn’t exactly take it. He just stares at her emotionless, but somehow intensely. "Well, I shouldn’t be here, too."

"Yeah?"

"Well, not just in this elevator, but in this… this life. In general." She sighs, heavily. "I want to be a painter and I end up… here." She starts to rub her head. "I still can't believe I walk around with folders every day."

"So, why didn’t you? Why didn’t you become a painter?"

"I don’t know." She takes a pause for a moment. It's not particularly a long pause, but enough for her to reminisce on an exact major mistake. She tries to pin point a specific period to blame. But she doesn’t find it since it's always been a long string of subtlety. "I think there were many things that were happening. There were things that I've let go." She stares the man. "You stare at the ceiling one day and you realize…," she takes a depressive sigh, then "… that you are not allowed to do or to be a certain thing anymore."

The man stares at the ceiling of the elevator. He is unconsciously absorbing the essence and texture of that confession. It's somehow still lingers in the air and he still have time to take it all in. "My wife wanted to be a painter when we were dating."

"Really?"

"Yeah." He declares it with a sincere pride. "She was passionate about things. I mean…," he shakes his head, "… she still is."

"You know, I get a little scared with Mrs. Dease sometimes."

"What do you mean?"

"I don’t know." She shrugs. "I guess it's her love towards her work. It makes me wish that I love something that deeply."

"It’s obsession, it's not love. It's different. That why you're probably scared of her. Love shouldn’t be scary."

"Well, then I admire her obsession."

The forced tranquility makes them wander with their own thoughts. It's unbearable, but at the same time liberating because it gives them a perfect license, sort of an excuse to not be somewhere or pretend to be someone. They know there are other agendas that are piling up and more important. But, is it though? Are they really important?

"You're lucky," he whispers.

"What?" She scrunches up her eyes.

"It's over for me, isn't?" He stares at the ceiling as if he mumbles a mantra to himself in an empty room.

"What?"

"You said… there are things." He rubs his lips a couple of times. "Things that you are not allowed to do anymore." He focuses his eyes to the woman.

"Okay?"

"Well, for me it's not just 'those things' anymore." He looks sad. His sudden downbeat starts to break his own heart. He starts to remember all of these life artifacts that he has accumulated over the years. Some of them are majestic and meaningful. Some of them are sadly unnecessary and possibly fill with regrets. There are things that he hurt and has hurt him. "I also have things… that I will never do." He gulps, then, "Sometimes, you'll get to the point where it's too far away to get back and too far of a journey to make a new one."

They both stare at each other with an intense sadness in each other's eye. Each expression mirrors the other. Both are tired, hopeless, and angry. They want to be free, but both appear to be clueless to achieve that. They mad to the world, to themselves, and to this elevator. They desperation complement the other desperation. They sit in the silence and wait patiently for something to happen. But, deep down, they know it won't help either because life has always been a stockpile of one confined space to the other. And the space gets safer and safer each time they decide to settle or hold on to something.

Then, the elevator dings. It's the same innocent sound. It's open.

"Ma'am? Sir? Are you okay?"