Elevator to Nowhere

The following video has been a You Tube phenomenon this week, despite the fact that it was actually shot almost ten years ago. Apparently, some knucklehead working for Business Week in NY was working late on a Friday and went downstairs for a cigarette break. On his way back, the elevator gets stuck between floors. And he winds up there for practically two days.

The surveillance cameras capture it all. Amazingly, the maintenance staff in this building is clearly working on the other three elevator banks. But, not the one this guy is jammed in. You watch as he calls for help. Nothing. He climbs up and tries to get out the top. Several times. He opens the door and then closes it several times. He naps frequently in a fetal position. At one point, he needs to pee and does so. Right down the elevator shaft. Miraculously, after 40 hours, they finally find the dude. And then, at last, the "out of order" sign is placed outside the elevator.

I can sympathize with this guy. Been there, done that. Twice.

The first time I took up temporary residence in an elevator was years ago when I was at Fordham and working at the school radio station. I was set to be one of the co-anchors for the 530PM newscast and decided to get a pre-broadcast soda at the vending machine downstairs. Why anybody took that elevator was beyond me? The thing had been built long before Martin Luther had posted his 95 theses. And the whole mechanism was nothing but two pieces of plywood and some old chewing gum. So, it should have been no surprise that, on the way back upstairs, I got jammed all by myself. In the black darkness of Keating Hall. With a bunch of good friends about twenty feet above me---laughing their ass off. Of course, there is never any comfort when you press the red "HELP" button. First of all, whoever is on duty takes forever to answer. And, then, when they do...

"Si?"

I never did get to the newscast. I was stuck in that motorized casket for either two hours or six days. And I insisted that those hyenas/friends buy me dinner.

Eons later, it was a little scarier. It was my office building in Los Angeles---a first class run operation. Except I was going into work at 6AM on a very hot Monday morning when the air conditioning had been turned off for the weekend. Something didn't feel right as I was propelled, once again alone, to the twelfth floor. As we arrived at the top of the elevator bank, the door never opened. Of course, the red "HELP" button was useless at this early hour. The overnight staff was probably still in their seventh or eighth dream of the night. So, I just held my finger on the buzzer until....

"Si?"

I was assured that help was on the way. The janitor was due into work in about 90 minutes. Meanwhile, I could feel freedom coolly blowing in through the crack in the door. So, I pried open the door by myself and groped for a lever that opened the outer door. By myself. The elevator was about four feet off the floor, which became a quick jump and roll for me.

I have no idea when they figured out that I had gotten out of the elevator by myself. But, my two elevator experiences clearly proved one thing to me.

The quickest way to find the dumbest Hispanic in the world is by getting stuck in an elevator.

And, hopefully, that clown from Business Week also extracted one more lesson from his ordeal.

Don't smoke.

Dinner last night: Fajita tostada at Kay and Dave's Cantina.