Push

Elevators bug me.  Although needed, they nonetheless combine experiences better-left alone:  tight spaces, awkward silences, and, of course, the even more awkward forced conversation.

“Kind of hot in here, huh?”

“Well, it is a metal box.”

            If I can, I usually try to take the stairs.

Sometimes, though, you can’t take the stairs, which happened to be the case this past July.

On our way home from Orlando this summer, we meandered over to Panama City Beach.  Avid readers—both of you—are already familiar with my take on the wisdom behind interstate domestic travel.  However, after successfully not losing anybody at Disney World, we looked forward to a few days on the coast to perhaps actually relax before going home.

This was kind of dumb.  We were still in Florida, after all, on one of the most densely populated beaches in North America.  To add insult to injury and perhaps even as part of some karmic vendetta for a recent column, the city was also hosting a giant girls’ softball tournament.

We were staying on the twenty-fifth floor of a twenty-six story building, and although the view from our balcony was lovely, anytime we wanted to go to the beach we had to pack enough stuff to supply a short camping trip.  Also, since every other floor was also full of people wanting to “enjoy” the beach, it took us a half hour to go from our room to our coveted spot in the sand.

Granted, these are all first world problems, but claustrophobia knows no borders, especially when you’re trying to hold three boogie boards and a set of beach chairs under one sunburned arm.  

About midway through our stay in paradise, however, the four of us decided to take an evening stroll.  The din of the day was over, the air cooler, the beach calm.  Time to breath. 

Before continuing, it’s important that I pause briefly to explain that both my kids like to push elevator buttons.  They fight about who receives this privilege and their rivalry has become so intense that we have designed a pattern to ensure that each of them gets to push a button at least once per trip.

It was my daughter’s turn to push the down button, which meant my son had hijacked her turn and scuttled away to avoid getting punched.  She then pushed the down button a few more times, just to be sure, and stood directly in front of the elevator door so she could “rush the box” and snatch his down button turn away from him.  With both of us occupied with scolding him, neither of us noticed when the door opened.

           By the time we did notice, our daughter was already in the empty elevator, and the door was shut.

           Before continuing, it’s important that I pause briefly to make this really rather simple public service announcement:  teach your kids how to run an elevator by themselves.  Our daughter did not possess this skill, because, after all, why would she ever be on an elevator without an adult, right?

I am not good at numbers, but even with my stunted math skills, I quickly realized the potential gravity of the situation.  Eight elevators, twenty-six floors, hundreds of rooms, thousands of people. The prospect for an unhappy ending was quite real.

We panicked.  With my wife screaming orders toward the elevator shaft and terrible thoughts free falling through my mind, I ran down the hallway toward the stairs with a misguided “plan” to stop on each floor.  Before I made it to the door, though, my wife shouted.

“She’s on seventeen!”

A nice lady with a small dog, who was on another elevator that happened to stop on our floor, mentioned, after prompting, that she had indeed seen a frightened little girl moments before. While my wife and son stayed put, the lady and I rode the elevator back down to seventeen where, sure enough, we found my daughter unsettled but safe.

It lasted maybe five minute.  Five horrible minutes, which was more than enough time to convince both of our kids to never again enter an elevator without holding at least one of our hands.

We have all run through the specifics of those moments many, many times, and we always came back to that lady.  Why did she happen to stop on the seventeenth floor, stop again on twenty-five, go back down to seventeen, and not once actually get off the elevator?  Was she just taking her dog out for a walk, and just happen to be at the right blessed place at the right blessed time?  

Or do we consider a more supernaturally grafted explanation?

Elevators still bug me, but this question does not.  Sometimes the obvious button to push goes up.