The kind of day metaphor becomes real life.
This morning, I needed to ride the elevator to my office, to floor two. Before I knew it, I was at floor six and down again. But it did not stop. Up and down. Up and down. To floor six and down again. The doors did not open, the ride did not stop, and the people I shared this elevator with, who I had not given a second glance, became people.
One woman with a thick Australian accent who claimed she might be sick. Another with beautiful, rainbow tattoos sliding up and down both arms, who turned to humor So this is the kind of day it’s going to be, she said with a nervous laugh. The other who was not going to tolerate this under any circumstances, who threatened to push any button she could, something bright red with an X. Please don’t, I begged. A girl with huge, thick glasses and wild hair who said not a single word.
So we agreed to press the alarm only (not the bright red button with an X!) and I became the spokesperson, speaking to the booming elevator voice of God (or the security guy in the lobby) We’d like to stop, I said, On any floor. Preferably the first.
We continued to ride. Up and down. We passed every floor, then passed it again in reverse. I had not expected a Coney Island elevator ride this morning. No, I did not.
We were let out eventually. I am grateful for that. My head is still dizzy. And I am thinking about what it means to be caught in an endless up and down, waiting for somebody, anybody, to let me out.