Stuck
I will kill myself if this train doesn’t start moving soon, thought Sheila. But without realizing it, she had said it out loud. The other passengers crowded around her and gave her some weird looks. She was not the least embarrassed, however, as the crowd took a step back from her. “Sorry... I’m late for an important job interview, and we’ve been stuck here forever.” As jaded New Yorkers who had seen it all, the crowd shrugged and went back to minding their own business.
The train moved slowly at first, then picked up speed.
Thank the gods. Maybe, just maybe, she’d get there on time.
Having been out of work because of the pandemic, Sheila desperately needed this job. Twenty-five years old and living with her parents was not how she thought her life would turn out. After graduating from Parsons School of Design, she landed an Art Director spot at a prestigious ad agency. Then Covid -19 got in the way, and it was Mom and Dad’s place that kept her from becoming homeless. At last, the fucking plague had lessened, and people were returning to offices, as companies started hiring again.
She clutched her portfolio of designs and sketches from her previous job, along with some great work she had done on her own while on unemployment. Despite the subway delay, she felt good about Little Moose Communications, even if the name was idiotic. And if that weren’t enough, here she was going to an interview at six o’clock on a Friday night in August. Oh well, what choice did she have?
Finally, the train pulled into Franklin Street station in Tribeca. It was ten to six, and she felt confident she would make it on time until she saw the throngs of people waiting on the platform. Most were soaked from what must have been a passing thunderstorm. The humidity inside the station was palpable. It felt and smelled like she imagined the rainforest of the Amazon would.
Sheila was slender and, at five foot five, didn’t look like she would be able to force her way through the crowd to the stairway. A one-time high school athlete who excelled at soccer and lacrosse, she put her head down, clutched her portfolio tightly, and with an agile shimmy and a minor push, managed to make her way to the stairs. Throngs of riders, like attacking hornets, swarmed down in the opposite direction.
What the hell? Where were they going on a stormy night?
“Excuse me,” Sheila howled as she elbowed her way up the stairs, ignoring the hostile looks she received with only a determined smile. Then the crowd parted, and finally, she made it to the street.
Yet her ordeal was far from over. It had stopped raining, but the hot, humid air felt oppressive; the expensive new outfit she had bought for her pending interview was creased and disheveled. She checked her watch. A few minutes after six. Shit. She put her head down, marched on, and briefly stopped to look at a shop window to check and try to fix her appearance.
Finally, she arrived at the office building at almost ten past six, went determinedly to the elevator, and repeatedly pushed the call button. Once she had got in, a man came running through the lobby toward her, shouting, “Hold it, please!” Annoyed, Sheila ignored him and leaned forward to push the button to her floor. The man stuck his hand out to stop the door from closing and stumbled in, almost colliding with Sheila.
“Watch it,” barked Sheila.
“Sorry,” the man said. “These elevators are slow, and I didn’t want to miss it.”
Sheila looked at her watch, then the man, and said, “I suppose if you missed the 6:10, there wouldn’t be another one until... what, the 6:15?”
The man ignored her and jammed the button for his floor. Neither tall nor handsome, with a scruffy beard and rugged clothes, he projected an aura of accustomed authority.
“Hey, it looks like you’re eighteen, and I’m nineteen.”
Sheila glared at him.
“It’s Friday night, the weekend. Smile and lighten up.”
“Listen,” she said. “I’m late for an important meeting. The damn subways were tied up. I practically had to run over here. I must get to... Oh, never mind.”
Just then, the elevator jerked to a stop.
Sheila was close to panicking. “What’s that? Why’d we stop?”
“Oh, this old thing does it all the time. No big deal.” He leaned over and randomly pushed buttons. The elevator dipped a bit and started moving again. “See? This is probably the oldest in New York. They dressed it up a bit but trust me, Mr. Otis himself installed it.”
“Who is Mr. Otis, and why do I care,” was Sheila’s sharp reply.
“Huh? Otis as in ‘Otis Elevators’…”
“I’m not interested. The last thing I need is someone hitting on me.”
“Well, you got me. I’m the elevator stalker specializing in hitting on women late for meetings and… aw, forget it.”
Silence hung in the elevator.
After a moment, Sheila said, “Sorry, I’m just stressed.”
The elevator stopped at last. The door opened. No one got on.
“Uh oh,” said the man.
“What!”
“We call this a phantom stop. Usually, when this happens, it means there’s going to be a problem. Might be a good idea if we got out and used the stairs the rest of the way up.”
“We’re on eight. I’m not walking up ten flights. I’m already late enough.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes. Thanks for your concern. Have a good night.”
“I guess I’ll stick around.” Then he muttered, “This ain’t good.”
The door closed, and the elevator moved again. After a few moments, the carrier gave a screeching sound, dropped a few feet, and stopped once more. Sheila dropped her bag and portfolio and grabbed the man’s arm. “Oh, my God! What happened? Help!”
“Stay calm. I’m pretty sure we’re stuck.”
“Don’t just stand there. Push the alarm!” She shoved him aside to press the alarm. The loud clanging noise was earsplitting. Sheila shouted, “Help! Somebody, we’re stuck in here! Help!”
The man sat down on the floor.
“What are you doing?” shouted Sheila. “Help me. I gotta get out of here.”
“I think we’re going to be here for a while. I’ve gone through this before, but never when I desperately had to go to the bathroom.”
“So, you’re just going to sit there?”
“I warned you that this might happen.”
“Spare me the ‘I told you so,’” snarled Sheila. “What’s this call button?”
“It’s not going to do any good.”
Sheila paid no attention and pressed the button.
After ringing twice, the recorded voice of an operator came through the speaker by the door. “If you wish to make a call, you must dial a ‘1’ before the area code and number.”
“The call button is supposed to dial an emergency number. They never fixed it.”
Sheila pushed harder on the alarm button and held it for a few moments. The sound remained so loud that she had to stop and hold her ears. She continued to shout for help.
“Save your breath,” said the man. “It’s Friday. The building is probably empty by now.”
“What about the super?”
“He leaves early on Friday to go to his house on Sag Harbor.”
“Is this an office building or an insane asylum? Help! Somebody!”
The man got up from the floor and tried to calm Sheila. “Look,” he said, “I’m going to try to pull the door open, and maybe we’re close enough to a floor to climb out.” He worked on the door, and slowly, it started to open. “It’s between floors,” he said, with a sigh. “There’s not enough room to climb out.”
Sheila’s face turned red, contorted in horror, and she shouted again that she had to get out of there. “Stay calm,” he said. “Here’s what I think…”
“To hell with what you think.”
Sheila opened her handbag, rummaged through it for her cell phone, and started dialing.
“That won’t work in here. There’s no cell service.” Sheila began to sob.
The man said, “Look, let’s stay calm. We’ll push the alarm every few minutes. There may be someone left in the building who will hear us.”
Sheila continued to sob and told him she couldn’t miss the meeting. Suddenly, she had an idea. “Wait a minute. I’m here for a job interview on the 18th floor. The person I’m supposed to meet is probably still in the building.” She rang the alarm again.
“Job interview?”
“Yes. Help! We’re trapped in the elevator!”
The man replied, “What company is on the 18th floor?”
“What difference does it make? Either help or be quiet.”
“Do you have an interview with Little Moose Communication?”
Shock registered on Sheila’s face. “How do you know that?”
“You’re not having a good day.”
“Ya think,” said Sheila, yelling. She saw his concerned face. “Listen… I’ve been out of work for nearly two years. I need this job. I know it’s a good fit. I know it.” She broke down in tears again.
The man said quietly, “Little Moose is on the nineteenth floor. You wouldn’t, by any chance, have a meeting with Tom Evans?”
Sheila calmed down and stared at him quizzically. “How did you know?”
“That’s me. I was late for your interview.”
“I think I am going to be sick.”
“Sheila, isn’t it? I’ve forgotten your last name.”
“Powers,” she stuttered.
“Is that your portfolio you’re holding?”
“You’re going to interview me after how I’ve acted? Here? Now?”
“Why not? We’re not going anywhere for a while. It’ll take our minds off things. Especially since I have to pee so bad.”
“I’m sorry for everything. I’m not usually so horrible.”
“It’s okay,” says Tom. “Particularly under the circumstances, but tell me, is that the way you behave under pressure?”
“No. Pressure usually brings out my innovative thinking, especially when there’s a problem, a challenge, or a deadline.”
Tom asked for an example.
Sheila considers this for a moment. “Here we are, stuck in this awful elevator. Who knows when we will be rescued? You certainly don’t want to pee on the floor, although if you did, you couldn’t make this floor look or smell any worse. But it would be embarrassing for both of us.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I have a bottle of water. Suppose I pour it out. Then I’ll turn around, and you can,
uh, use it to relieve yourself.
“That’s the extent of your innovative thinking?”
Sheila backtracked and muttered something about the difficult circumstances they were in.
Tom assured her it was all okay and asked to see her portfolio.
“What, now?”
“Sure,” says Tom. “As I said, we’re not going anywhere. Let me see it.”
He looked through the pages briefly. “Good stuff. I liked your resume. We need to continue in my office.”
“Yeah, if we can get out of here.”
“Do you think you can handle the pressure of a start-up agency?”
Sheila replied emphatically. “I may not have come up with the answer to this predicament, but I think I explored the options, and I’ll keep trying.” She started to shout again, “Help. We’re stuck in here!”
Tom interrupted her, “I’ll tell you what… Let’s not get into that here. I need go to the bathroom.” He leaned over and pushed a few buttons on the elevator panel. It started to ascend.
“What just happened? What did you do?”
Tom had a sheepish grin and shrugged.
Sheila’s face turned red with anger, “Is this something you often do? Conduct interviews in a stuck elevator?”
“Sometimes. You get to see people under stress.” The elevator stopped. “We’re on eighteen.” Tom stepped out with a shit-eating grin.
Sheila stayed inside the elevator.
“Here we are,” said Tom.
Sheila stayed in the elevator and stared at Tom for a moment. “Listen, Tom, if this was a test, you failed. I don’t need the job that badly, after all. Go fuck yourself!”
Sheila pushed the down button, and the door closed in Tom’s face.
