Going Up

“Good morning, Barbara,” said Charles Smith. He pushed the button for the twelfth floor.

“Good morning, Mr. Smith,” she said. Her black spike heels clicked as she stepped carefully into the small elevator car. It was empty except for her boss.

From the corner of her eye, she took in Mr. Smith discreetly surveying her body. Doris Day hairstyle. Red lipstick. Pale skin. Cloth coat open, revealing a bright blue dress, belt cinched tightly at the waist. She didn’t have to work at being stylish: she was very 1953.

Her boss looked chipper this morning. He whistled tunelessly, his hazel eyes sparkling. He held his fedora in one hand and tapped it impatiently against his leg, all the while bouncing on his heels. Not a single brown hair was out of place, and his Brylcreem glistened as if his head were sweating. Barbara realized that he must have ducked into the lobby bathroom to primp in front of the mirror before getting into the lift.

They stood side-by-side in silence as the elevator door slid closed. Even with only two of them in the elevator, Barbara felt crowded. His aftershave, splashed on too generously, was oppressive. She knew Mr. Smith was continuing to stare at her, although he was trying to do so on the sly. Barbara made certain not to make eye contact with him.

Barbara’s mind drifted to the time constraints of her lunch hour. She needed to dash to the hardware store for a new chain for her apartment door. And go to the bank. I hope I have time for my sandwich, too, Barbara thought.

The car rose upward with a muffled whir. Second floor, fifth, ninth. Mr. Smith looked at his watch. Before the tenth floor, the car shuddered to a stop, wobbled downward for a few feet, and came to a rattling halt. Everything went dark for a moment; then a dim emergency light came on.

Barbara let her breath out quickly and surveyed the scene.

“My god,” Smith murmured. He put his brown leather briefcase on the floor and stood still, his eyes widening as they flicked nervously around the enclosure.

Barbara darted forward toward the button panel and pushed the alarm. No sound. Then she flipped the on/off switch a few times. No response.

“I’ll call,” Barbara said. Her tone was firm. She reached for the emergency telephone tucked into the paneling and lifted the receiver. After toggling for a tone, she sighed. “No connection.”

“Jesus Christ, we’re stuck,” Smith said. He looked around. “This elevator must be twenty years old.”

Barbara repeated the sequence of buttons, switches and phone. Nothing. She eyed her boss. He was sweating, face as white as his now damp shirt. He’d already loosened his tie, unbuttoned and removed his tweed suit jacket.

“Okay, let’s make noise,” she said. They both began calling for help. Mr. Smith’s voice had a frantic edge. He joined Barbara in banging on the paneled walls. No response. They grew quiet. Minutes passed.

“Don’t like small spaces,” whispered Smith, beginning to bite his thumb nail. He saw Barbara watching him and dropped his hand.

“They’ll figure out we’re in here,” said Barbara. “And, look,” she said, pointing to air vents at the base of the back wall. “We’ll be fine.” She took off her heels and her coat, which she folded neatly and placed on the floor.

“What if we crash?” Smith said with a note of hysteria in his voice. The car dropped a few more inches. Barbara stabbed the Open Door button. No response. She tried the phone a third time, then eyed the trapdoor in the elevator’s ceiling.

“Oh god,” Smith moaned. “I don’t want to die.”

Barbara could see that Mr. Smith was working himself into a state. The second slippage of the car had frightened him badly. Starting to cry, he hunched in the corner, rocking back and forth. His hat had fallen from his hand and sat, looking defeated, next to his briefcase.

Then Mr. Smith rose to his feet and flailed at the walls, sobbing, screaming for help. Losing it, thought Barbara. She could smell his acrid body odor over his Aqua Velva.  

She put a hand on his shoulder. Smith wheeled around, suddenly furious in his fear.

“Don’t touch me, you bitch.” He drew back a fist as if to hit her. Before he could strike, she gave him a shove, hard enough to slam him against the elevator wall. Smith was breathing heavily, almost snorting. Barbara looked at him with a cool eye.

“Let’s stay calm,” she said.

They stood facing one another. Barbara’s eyes surveyed Mr. Smith, lingering on his untucked shirt. Then she walked over to the elevator panel again, flipped the on/off button several times, and pressed the “9” button. When nothing happened, she tried the help phone again. This time it connected.

“Hello, James. This is Barbara Tannen.” Her voice was even. “Mr. Smith and I are stuck in the elevator between floors nine and ten. Can you get us out of here as soon as possible, please?”

By the time James had cranked the elevator to the tenth floor, Mr. Smith had tucked in his shirt and put his suit jacket back on. Using the white handkerchief in his breast pocket, he’d wiped the tears and sweat from his face and straightened his tie. When the elevator door slid open, he was standing more or less at attention, shoulders back.

James said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith. The whole building lost power there for a while.” His voice was contrite, as if he were taking personal responsibility for the electrical failure, but his face reflected a careful neutrality. 

“Yes. Well. Thank you, James,” Mr. Smith said. “Barbara, I’ll see you shortly. I’ll need you for dictation after my 9:15 meeting.”

“Of course, Mr. Smith.” Barbara’s high heels clicked as she left the elevator, her coat folded over her arm. As she moved toward the stairwell, she gave James a wink.