I got on an elevator a while back with a friend. Immediately on entering he took his hat off and placed it over his heart.
”It`s customary,” he said. ”Actually, I`d do it anyway because I don`t want to meet my maker with my hat on and I don`t trust these things.”
It occurred to me I didn`t trust them, either. And I still don`t and the more I see of them in my travels about the world the more I don`t trust them. I figure if the Lord had meant for me to ride up and down on a string, He`d have made me a yo-yo.
My wife, Joyce, has opined a time or two that He did just that. And indeed, I may be a little eccentric on the subject. I`m not about to organize a demonstration and carry a sign reading, ”Down with elevators.” But I am saying the whole business needs a little more thinking.
The names, alone, should make one suspicious. I`ve heard them called
”elevators,” ”hoists” and ”lifts.” But why are they never named after their downward motion? They don`t only go up.
Ask for directions to the ”lift” in Harrods, in London, and you won`t have any trouble, but suppose you`re already up and you want to go down. How far do you think you`ll get if you ask for directions to the ”drop.”
And why do they also call that part of a moving staircase which only goes down an escalator when it does not ever escalate?
Most of the elevators Joyce and I have seen in Europe tend to be small. The one in the Hotel DeLille, in Paris, accommodates only one person and one suitcase. The person must be thin and the suitcase only fits if standing on end.
There was an even more memorable elevator in Stockholm`s Palace Hotel. It was unique in that it was quite large.
All of us who had been waiting in the lobby got on and went through the rituals that go with good elevator manners.
We faced the front, shuffled around a little until each of us had our approximate quota of space, gave each other little half smiles and stared up at the spot at the top of the door.
Then, somebody pushed a button. Others mentioned their floors and the same man cheerfully pushed buttons for each number called.
The doors closed. The light dimmed, the motor hummed for a few seconds and the doors opened. Somebody got off, looked around, found he was still in the lobby and was trying to get back on when the doors closed.
The light dimmed, the motor hummed, stopped and the doors opened. There was the same man who`d just gotten off.
”Nice of you to come back for me,” he said. Several of us exchanged glances. We hadn`t gone back for him. The doors closed, the light dimmed, the motor hummed and the doors opened. Again we were facing the lobby.
It happened three or four more times before we all realized the machine was having us. The elevator had not moved at all. It had just gone through the motions.
The Irish elevator was another matter. We were in Galway, at the Great Southern Hotel, with a tour group of mostly Irish-Americans, ”who`d come home” for a look and to pay homage to the old sod.
It was an old building and an old elevator. Eight of us got on, on the fifth floor and were on our way down to the lobby to catch our bus for Shannonside.
The car stopped on the fourth floor and though it was full, a chambermaid got on. The doors closed and we were starting to go down again when the machinery groaned and stopped. The lights flickered and went out.
”It`s my fault,” the chambermaid said. ”Things were grand `til I got on. It was my weight that did it. I`m so sorry.” Several of us told her that was silly and that it was nobody`s fault.
”Push the button,” somebody said.
”Which button?” somebody else asked.
”Any of `em. All of `em.”
”Oh, dear lord,” said a small voice, ”You might be pushing the emergency, by mistake. Miss Riley gets awful mad when the emergency bell rings. She`ll think I did it. Everything that goes wrong, she thinks I did it.”
”But this is an emergency.”
”Saints preserve us,” said the girl. ”It is. It is.”
”Let`s rock it,” somebody suggested.
”Are you kidding?” another man said. ”This thing`s got to be 50 years old.”
A bell started to ring, somewhere down in the shaft and no one spoke while we listened for some kind of activity.
Someone outside shouted, asking if we were all right and one of us inside shouted back that we were not all right, that we were stuck in a broken elevator in the dark and we were getting hot.
Another voice from outside announced that they`d sent for the engineer and that they`d have us out in no time.
Then we heard a conversation in low tones, on the other side of the door, about how it was the engineer`s day off. It wasn`t very reassuring.
Joyce whispered that she hoped we wouldn`t miss our bus and our plane connections, which started a chorus of people calling through the door for somebody to make the Shannonside bus wait.
”I`m not much,” said the chambermaid, ”but after this they`ll fire me for sure and I need this job,” she said to herself. Then louder, ”Somebody tell Miss Riley that Maureen`s trapped in the lift . . . and that I`m not after runnin` off and smoking at all.”
There was some metallic clunking in the shaft. There were a few sharp intakes of breath. Joyce comforted Maureen and told her she`d go to the management for her if it came to that.
”You Yanks are lovely people,” said the girl. ”So thoughtful and . . .”
The elevator grunted and dropped a few inches. We all grunted and went with it. Somebody`s deodorant failed.
Word games were suggested to pass the time. No one could think of any. One of us suggested that we sing. That also was ignored, though it seemed
”Nearer, My God to Thee” might have been appropriate. Maureen said she`d tell a joke, then asked a riddle and forgot the answer. Everybody said it was all right.
An hour later, after almost everybody`s deodorant had failed, they got us out. Standing in the lobby was most of the hotel staff.
One lady, in a business suit and with a worried expression, greeted us. Her eyes settled on the chambermaid almost immediately.
”Oh, there you are, Maureen.”
Maureen looked like she was facing the hangman. ”Yes, ma`am.” She started to say something else, but a member of our party, a red-faced man from Boston, cut her off.
”Miss Riley, is it?” The lady nodded.
”This young lady here,” he went on, putting his arm around the chambermaid, ”Is one fine employee. She kept our spirits up the whole time, what with her jokes and all.”
”Maureen?” Miss Riley said. ”She did that?”
Everyone agreed, giving the impression that anything could have happened if Maureen hadn`t been with us.
Miss Riley accepted the information with grace and more than a little surprise. She then announced that there would be another Shannonside bus along in half an hour which ought to give us time to ”freshen up a bit.”
We all needed freshening up a lot. Almost as one, we headed for the stairs.
”Maureen,” said Miss Riley. Most of us turned to see the chambermaid looking up at us. Her eyes were brimming. ”You Yanks,” she said softly.
Miss Riley tapped her on the shoulder. ”I think you could use a little freshening up, too.”
The girl nodded and said, ”Yes`m.” Then she held up her hand, wiggled her fingers at us and hurried off down the hall. The last thing we saw of her was when she wiped her eyes and blew her nose on her apron.
Miss Riley just heaved a great sigh and smiled at us. Then, she too, said, ”You Yanks,” turned and walked back toward the desk.
I didn`t say riding in an elevator couldn`t be an uplifting experience.
