Or at Least the Elevator
Today, temps finally, finally climbed to 70 degrees here in Key West so I went out for a walk then planned to join Ginger poolside. Our condo is on the third floor, right front corner of the resort. From our porch we have a great view of the Atlantic Ocean and the pool area. After changing into my suit I turned left out the condo door and headed toward the pool entrance on the rear of the building. I walked down the long open walkway along the full length of our building, turned left at the end and walked half the width of the building to the elevator and pushed the “down” button. Hearing the elevator grinding up to meet me, I shifted my tote bag from shoulder to shoulder as the doors opened to an empty car.
The doors closed behind me and I pressed the “first floor” button. The elevator descended. And stopped. I didn’t notice at first, though, since I was daydreaming. When I noticed the stillness, I pressed the “open door” button, figuring the door just didn’t open. No response. I pressed the “first floor” button again. No light lit up. I pressed the “open door” button. No response. After doing this little routine for about a minute, I realized, for the very first time in my whole life, that I was trapped in an elevator, alone.
I pounded on the doors and yelled. No response. I pounded on the doors and yelled again. Not a peep from outside my 8’ x 8’ metal prison. I scrabbled in my tote bag and pulled out my cell phone. I always carry it (Are you listening here Mike? Mike?) and today I was very thankful to have it in my hot little hands.
I pulled up “most recent calls” and scrolled down to the first number with a Key West area code and dialed.
“Hello?” I asked when the phone was answered on the other end.
“Hello?” she replied.
“I’m stuck on the elevator. Can you send someone?” I asked.
“I can’t hear you. Can you repeat that?” she asked.
(louder) “I’m stuck on the elevator, elevator #3. Can you send someone?” I asked.
I shouted into the phone, suddenly getting desperate.
I hung up. And redialed using auto redial.
”HELLO!” I shouted into the phone. “I’M STUCK IN THE ELEVATOR. SEND HELP!!
“Who is this? a male voice asked.
“IT’S ME! I’M A GUEST HERE AT THE HYATT. SEND HELP. I’M TRAPPED IN THE ELEVATOR.”
“This isn’t the Hyatt and we don’t have an elevator,” he replied calmly.
Mortified, I hung up on who I am now convinced is one of the wait staff at Camille’s, the last place I guess I called down here in Key West.
Taking a deep breath, I scrolled more carefully through “most recent calls,” knowing that the Hyatt’s number was one of the numbers stored considering I’d already called about the Wi Fi connections at least twice this week.
“Hyatt. This is ____. May I help you,” she asked in a sweet voice.
“I’M STUCK IN THE STUPID ELEVATOR AND CAN’T GET OUT. SEND HELP! I shouted, completely out of sorts.
After a brief silence she asked, “You, your stuck? Where?”
“IN ELEVATOR #3.”
“The elevator in building 3?” she asked, now sounding mildly concerned.
“NO. NO. ELEVATOR #3 IN BUILDING 8.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll send someone over,” she replied sweetly and hung up.
I stood there. And stood there. Five minutes later, the elevator alarm started screaming in my ear and echoing around the car without me even having touched a button on the panel. I start to pound on the doors and yell for help since loud noise and I don’t get along at all well (just ask Max or Tory).
Seemingly from a great distance I heard a male voice ask, “Are you in there?”
“OF COURSE I AM. LET ME OUT!”
After more minutes of scraping and prying, the doors opened enough for me to clamber out. The first step was a doozy since the car landed about 14 inches below where it should have. I politely thanked the fellow who pried the doors open and stomped on toward the pool.
Hi, Ginger,” I said as I stomped big stomps up to her lounge chair. “I’ve been trapped in the elevator for the past 15 minutes.”
With that, Ginger looked up, removed her sunglasses, took a look at me and replied in that inimitable southern accent of hers, “Oh. My. God.”