The Elevator

I’m pretty sure I’m going to die in it. Actually, I probably won’t die; I’ll be a paraplegic or some other kind of plegic. I won’t be able to get a job. I’ll end up sleeping under a bridge and sucking dicks for Keystone Light. (That’s how it always goes.) But how the hell am I going to get to the bridge if I’m a paraplegic? Not like my girlfriend is going to give me a ride to suck dicks under a bridge for booze. Shit, shit, shit. My mouth might not even work—for drinking or sucking. I’m screwed. You might be wondering why I think I might die or end up handicapable from the elevator in my office. My first clue was the old man who got on with me last week.

“Thank the Baby Jesus, you’re here,” he said.

“Why is that?” I asked.

“This goddamn elevator scares the hell out of me. I don’t think I can take another drop.”

I said, “Drop?” That word has never been so scary.

“Yeah, this damn contraption dropped me a while back. Not all the way down, but a good ten foot.”

“Jesus,” I said. “I’m glad you’re here, too. At least we can die together.”

“Yep,” he said.

We made it to the bottom with no drops, but my confidence in the elevator was not elevated at all. On the way back up—don’t ask me why I didn’t take the stairs—I noticed that the guy in charge of the regulating board of elevators and other vertical conveyance type shit is named Richard Kuntz. No shit. I don’t trust Mr. Kuntz at all. I’m sure he got bullied a lot as a kid and it probably hasn’t gotten too much better. I would probably be so pissed off at the world that I might sabotage elevators to get back at all the assholes who made fun of me. “Gay Trey” was bad enough. I was going to take a picture of his inspection placard for future evidence, or at least a funny post on Instagram, but I‘d left my phone on my desk. (I always think of great pics or funny tweets when I don’t have my phone on me.)

The reason I’m on that elevator so much is that I smoke and I don’t have much to do at work. As the day went on, I mostly forgot about Mr. Kuntz and his fucked up elevator. I was reminded the next morning. I was standing there, waiting for that slow piece of shit, when a dude with a giant belly and his almost-hot girlfriend/sister/wife walked up. He was wearing a NASCAR t-shirt, with what I imagine were “special sauce” stains on it. Apparently, he WANNA GO FAST. The chick looked at me and said to him, “I hope they fixed this thang since last time we was here.”

“I bet they hadn’t done nothin,” he said. I quickly realized that I was on a busted-ass elevator with a dude who weighed at least 400 lbs. I was pretty sure that I would be the first one eaten if we got stuck.

It’s been a week since I wrote that first part. I haven’t died yet or lost the use of any body parts. I didn’t drink and I didn’t suck any dicks. I have heard more horror stories though. One lady said she was stuck on there for 3.5 hours. If that happens to me, I’m going to piss on the floor and smoke cigarettes.



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