Short Stories -- Elevator

I’d been standing idly by the elevator waiting for it to ‘ping’ its arrival when suddenly the building swayed and the lights went out. I grabbed at the wall for balance, and fell clumsily against the corner of the elevator alcove, grazing my forehead. Ahem. Lights please! I waited for the emergency generator to come on, but it didn’t. There was another crash and then a rumble like thunder. Did my life flash before my eyes? No, but somehow I was now Bond.

I stood up nonchalantly, straightened my imaginary tux, and strolled back to my apartment. Doors were opening, letting vertical bands of subdued daylight into the hallway, people were asking “What happened? Why did the power go out?”, but I ignored them. Once in my apartment, out of some strange reflex I checked the fridge. It was cold (of course!) but silent and dark without the familiar buzz of the motor. I made myself a martini and took it out to the balcony. There was a fresh wind and the air had the electric charge of ozone. Zing! Another bolt of lightening. I retreated from the balcony as the thunder rumbled around me. I considered my options.

I had intended to go get groceries but why risk a long climb back up to the twentieth floor and no refrigeration. I went to turn on the news. Silly. No power. I tried to phone my sister. No answer. Probably still at work.

Rather belatedly, I felt a pang of remorse. My neighbours! I’d barreled right past them in my hurry to get to my suite. Perhaps I should check they were all okay. Flushed with virtue, I collected some Dixie cups, bottled water and a flashlight and went back to the hallway.

It was then that I heard a rhythmic tapping from the vicinity of the elevator. Ha! Every boy scout/secret agent can decipher Morse Code. I trained my flashlight on the elevator and forgetting I was Bond, yelled “Hullo, anybody in there?”

The tapping stopped and a female voice said “Stop yelling and get me out of here.”

Oh, oh, I knew that voice, those clipped tones. It was none other than Mrs. Kopinski, our resident shrew. Well, that was putting it nicely. Mrs. Kopinski, 80 years old, 4 feet 8 inches, 90 lbs, bony face, bony fingers, bony everything, had lived on my floor for centuries, well, five years at least, knew everything about everyone and didn’t let them forget it. She seemed to be always in the elevator, either going or coming, dressed in a shapeless black flowered dress,droopy cream cable knit sweater, and black shoes. Sometimes she’d wear nylons, sometimes socks.

“Hi, Mrs. Kopinski, it’s James, I mean, Nigel, are you stuck in the elevator?” (Good for you, heh, heh, I was thinking, but I gave myself a mental slap. The dear old lady. )

I could hear muttering. Unbeknownst to most people, I have very sharp hearing. And so I heard something about goddamn it, I’m trapped in an elevator and the only one around is that moron Nigel. Ouch! Mrs. Kopinski, you will pay for that remark. Visions of stepping backwards in the elevator and stomping on her foot: “Oh SO SORRY Mrs. Kopinski, I didn’t realize your feet were so big.” Of course, it was just an impulse, I would never actually do such a thing. But think it? Of course. Oh, the hideous impulses I have to hold in check all day long!)

“Mr. Fortinbras, go to 2008 and find Paul. He’ll know what to do.”

I felt slightly deflated. Paul was a firefighter who lived on our floor. “Won’t he be at work, Mrs. Kopinski?”

“He’s working night shift. I know this because he asked me to collect a parcel for him today so he wouldn’t be disturbed sleeping.”

“Well, I’m sure I can pry the door open and get you out myself without bothering Paul…”

“No, no, no!” It was the only time I’d heard the old lady shriek. “Go get Paul!”


I decided I needed more facts. “How many in the elevator? Have you tried using the emergency phone?”

“The phone isn’t working. I’m the only person in the elevator. But what does it matter any way?”

As usual she was right. She was always right, she always knew everything, and she always reported everything. We’d met the very first day I’d moved in. She took exception to how long my move was taking (we’d commandeered one of the two elevators) and had gone on and on about it. I was hot and thirsty and fed up moving and it wasn’t my finest hour. I told her what I thought of her, not realizing we were on the same floor. Things had been frosty ever since. I’d tried to make amends, but she wouldn’t have any of it. She would stare coldly at me in the elevator. She refused to let me carry her groceries or open the door. If I left my clothes in the dryer after it had shut off, she’d haul them out and leave them on top of the dryer. It was strange because she always wore the same dress and I’d never seen her using the washing machine or dryer. But that was Mrs. Kopinski.

I went and rapped on 2008. Several times. Finally Paul, dressed in red pj bottoms, came to the door. What muscles, what a fantastic torso! I was sure he used steroids but now didn’t seem the right time to ask. “I’m Nigel,” I said.

“Uh, huh.”

“Mrs. Kopinski is trapped in the elevator.”

“Uh, huh.”

“She wants you to rescue her.”

“Uhhh.”

“I’ll give you a hand, if you like.”

“Wha?”

“Rescuing her.”

“Uhhh.”

Jeez, how did this guy rescue anyone? I recalled he’d been asleep and probably didn’t know what had happened. “Paul, there’s been an electrical storm. The power’s out. Mrs. Kopinski is trapped in the elevator.”

“Ahh!” Recognition dawned in his eyes.

“Maybe you should have some coffee to wake up.” I said, and then felt like a dunce. No power. “Coca-cola? Red Bull? Get dressed?”

“Right!” said Paul. “Get dressed first.”

I was glad to see his capacity for speech returning.

I went back to the elevator. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Kopinski, Paul is coming. Do you want me to do anything in the meantime? Check your apartment? Feed your bird?”

“And how would you get in?” Mrs. Kopinski shouted back.

“Are you hungry? Shall I make you a snack for when you exit the elevator?” I thought quickly. Something light and easily digestible. And cloying to dentures. “A peanut butter sandwich?”

“NO!!!”

The poor woman was obviously claustrophobic and on the verge of hysteria. Luckily, I had taken first aid. Talk quietly and calmly to the victim, try to distract her from her troubles.


“When did you learn Morse Code Mrs. Kopinski? In the war?”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with--”

“Ooooh! Were you a radio operator, Mrs. Kopinski? Or a spy?”

I tried to imagine Mrs. Kopinski as a spy, young, beautiful, scarlet lips pressed to the cheek of a German U-boat captain, whispering soft endearments, obtaining amazing secrets, then slitting his throat. Yes! Yes! She’d be perfect! But somehow, I couldn’t quite imagine her as anything but a perpetually cardiganed little old lady with a limp, sitting in her darkened bachelor suite, recounting yet another Nigel Fortinbras transgression to her budgie.

Soft! Who comes? I whirled around and banged into Paul’s chest. Those mighty pecs! I reeled. Then I took two steps back. “Where’s your equipment? Didn’t you bring a grappling hook? Or do you just slam your mighty shoulder into the door and it opens? Do you need ropes or are you going to slide down the cables? Hurry, the elevator might be about to give way!”

Paul was fully awake now and unimpressed by my questions. “Nigel, the car is suspended by multiple cables. Mrs. Kopinski is perfectly safe. But we don’t know exactly where the car is stuck. It may be between floors and if I bust open these exterior doors in the hallway, all you’d see would be the empty elevator shaft. In the darkness, someone could step into it and fall! I’ll get someone over here from Epcor or Otis to get the emergency generator on and then we’ll power the car down safely. Did you hear all that Mrs. Kopinski?”

“Yes, Paul.”

“You might be in there for several hours.”

“Oh dear.”

“Nigel will stay and keep you company.”

“Oh, that’s NOT necessary Paul.”

Despite her protests, I stayed and talked to her for four hours until the power came on. She relented and told me all about her work as a radio operator during the war. I told her about my lapses into James Bond and the shots I get every two weeks. She was very understanding. Now we get along great. She even lets me call her M.