Except sometimes you didn't always get there.
There was one morning when I certainly got to my office destination. I was safely nestled into my desk chair and reading the Los Angeles Times when I noticed that my colleague next door had not yet arrived. She was one of the usual early birds. Hmmm. No voice mail message from her calling in sick. This was unusual.
And then I got an e-mail from her phone. She was there all right. Stuck in an elevator out at the twelfth floor lobby. The door would not open.
I went out there and figured out which dungeon was hers. I could easily talk to her with the metal door between us. She pressed all the usual emergency buttons but it was that early hour where the top notch building staff was not necessarily on duty.
Translation: during the daytime, you usually connect with somebody who speaks very little English. In the off hours, you are talking with a person who speaks virtually no English.
I don't remember how we managed to get her out of the steel tomb but we did. Luckily, I added, that I was there or she might not have gotten out for hours.
Flash forward to two weeks later. My colleague was going to be working from home that morning. And, at about 6:30AM, I am ascending through the big vertical tunnel up to the twelfth floor.
And the elevator refuses to open.
This time, it's me being inconvenienced and on an unusually hot and humid Los Angeles morning.
I hit the emergency button and connected with either the basement or Tijuana. I couldn't really tell the difference. The guy I woke up told me to wait until the daytime help showed up.
The hell I would. I did everything they probably tell you not to do when stuck in an elevator. Okay, I wasn't going to crawl out the top like Bruce Willis in "Die Hard." But, as I peered through the crack in the door, I could see the 12th floor lobby. Sort of. Except it wasn't exactly flush with the ground. The elevator was about three feet above it.
I pried and pulled and pushed. Eventually, I got the elevator door to slide open. And I jumped out. Meanwhile, the daytime guy downstairs didn't show on his spot for another two hours.
So, yes, I did not relish this elevator adventure. But there was one many years ago that was much worse. And lots more embarrassing.
Home of WFUV where I spent a lot of time during my college years. Location of some classrooms where I spent a little time during my college years. The centerpiece of the Bronx campus is old, austere, and historic.
And it was between the second and third floors of this building where I had two pretty scary experiences.
Let's talk first about the only elevator in the place. For college students too lazy to walk up and down three flights, it provided the lift needed after a long WFUV session or a short Theology dissertation. The elevator itself might have been even older than the building. It was a large size wooden crate that resembled a vertical coffin. I never felt completely safe in there. Not for the queasy or the claustrophobic.
But, take it nevertheless we did. One day, I was scheduled to be the co-anchor on the WFUV Evening Report which aired at 530PM every afternoon during those golden days at the station when students actually got to do things. It was a big deal for me as I had never done this co-anchor bit before. We did our usual preparation. Rip the news items off the Associated Press ticker. Maybe try to rewrite one or two, so it sounded like you weren't reading them verbatim.
Around 445PM, I wanted a snack from the soda and candy machines down on the first floor. I was hungry. And, after several hours of reading AP recounts of Congressional votes, I was exhausted, too. Too spent to walk down and up three flights of stairs for my Coke and Hershey bar.
I boarded the elevator to Hell. The trip down was a no brainer. Armed with soft drink and candy, I boarded the wooden crate for the return trip. Just past the second floor, it happened.
Clunk, crash, sputter, phhhhbbbbttt.
My journey, for the time being, had ended.
I generally don't panic in a stuck elevator. I was younger and much more optimistic about life. I mean, there's always an emergency button with someone very helpful on the end of the transmission. Right?
I pressed it. It took five minutes for somebody to answer the call.
"Si?"
I explained the predicament to him.
"No habla Anglaise."
The chocolate bar started to melt and so did I. Luckily, my magnetic personality is always missed and my WFUV cohorts noticed my absence pretty quickly. And it didn't take them long to figure out where I was. Because the broken elevator was now requiring them all to use the ungodly method of climbing stairs.
And my new location between the second and third floor of Keating Hall became a novelty as they took turns calling down taunts.
"What are you doing down there?"
Well, I was really looking for some quiet time before the newscast and I really thought that an elevator shaft provided the best venue.
I pressed the emergency button again.
"Si."
Ugh.
I was losing patience and planning to lose most of my friends who were up getting their jollies out of my plight. When the laughs started to die down, somebody actually went to seek out the non-English speaking man on the other end of my lifeline.
But, that didn't result in an immediate solution. I was stuck in that coffin for almost two hours. And, of course, missed the newscast. I understand that the anchorperson that day signed off by saying good night to Len "wherever he may be in this building."
And it was the memory of that hot box afternoon and the deadly demonic elevator that indirectly provoked another harrowing adventure in that building. My other "between floors" experience in Keating Hall was a bit more harrowing.
Darn right frightening. And, surprisingly, this time it was on the stairway between the second and third floor.
It was early in my junior year and I had just moved on campus. This was your traditional Fall college day. There was a football game scheduled that night. I was working on something at WFUV and realized that a host of my chums were headed to the campus center for some food. I wanted to catch up to them. So, I ran. And I decided that I could get down the stairs a lot quicker than with my own nemesis, the elevator.
As I started to fly down the first flight of steps, I tripped on my sneaker laces which were untied. I missed the last half of the flight, emulating Mary Martin as Peter Pan. To cushion the upcoming blow on the landing, I extended my hands.
And my right one went right through the window.
It was one of those slow motion moments that happen in life. I didn't really feel anything as the hand went through the glass. There was no pain. It seemed all pretty routine. Until I noticed my wrist.
With the big gash right on the vein.
And the blood shooting out like Old Faithful.
Hmmmm. This is not good.
I immediately put my left thumb over the gusher and slowly walked down the rest of the stairs. Now it wasn't lunch that I wanted to share with my friends. I needed help to get to a hospital. My roommate and other cronies weren't that far ahead. After asking me whether it could wait till after they had lunch, I was chaperoned to the campus nurse's office.
Where I probably passed out. My next memory was a whiff of smelling salts. Pressure was applied to stop the bleeding, but it was clear that I needed stitches.
At nearby Fordham Hospital. Where people went in and usually did not come out.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur. A hospital emergency room in the Bronx is automatically a scary prospect. Several gurneys were rushed in with people missing a body part or two. After a while, I realized that my six little sutures would be minor in the great medical scope of things.
The bandage on my wrist was the big hit in the football stands that night. I explained that I was simply trying to perfect my impersonation of Judy Garland. The scar shows to this day. And I always used a different staircase after that.
And never the elevator.
Okay, I have taken them since. Even getting stuck again once or twice. And now I curse my knees. If not for this damn arthritis, I would take the freakin' stairs.
Dinner last night: Cheese, crackers, fruit, and wine at the Hollywood Bowl.
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