The Elevator
The agent told Nate there had once been a bank in the red brick building on the corner of 8th and Hempstead. First National Bank survived from its founding in 1901 until the Great Depression, when the company went broke. The space was occupied by a series of short-lived banking operations in later years but ended up vacant, and stayed that way for quite some time. Eventually, a developer bought the property, rehabbed the interior to a degree, and rented the space as short-term rental lofts for travelers and tourists, and apartments to longer-term tenants. Through a connection with a friend, Nate had been able to rent one of the lofts for six months while he got settled in town.
He arrived with a truck full of belongings and spent much of a sunny Saturday moving in. His sister had loaned him a two-wheel dolly to move boxes, and luckily, there was a loading ramp outside the building that led to the sidewalk, which led to the lobby, which led to the elevator, and there weren’t any steps. It was important to him, because he had a medical condition that affected his mobility, and he couldn’t hang with stairs for more than a flight or two.
Unfortunately, the elevators were extremely old and did not appear to be in good shape.
“Rickety as shit,” he thought.
All day he had been riding the elevator up and down as he moved-in and he had noticed it made scraping and screeching noises. Nobody else seemed to have a problem riding the elevator, though, and they had lived in the building longer than he had, so he put aside his concerns and gave the elevator a workout.
Late in the afternoon as he neared the end of his truckload, he returned to the elevator with a handcart loaded with boxes. He boarded the elevator with a pretty young woman carrying a package, and they exchanged a glance and a nod.
When the elevator arrived at the 9th floor, they could feel the ascension slow, then stop, but the doors did not open.
There was an uncomfortable moment, then Nate chuffed.
“Is it gonna…?”
The elevator doors made a noise, twitched a bit, but did not open.
“Is this the day I get stuck in an elevator?” the woman asked aloud.
Nate laughed nervously then stepped forward and pressed his fingertips firmly into the seam of the telescoping elevator doors. He pulled and the doors moved a little, then began to slide open, revealing the backside of the outer elevator doors, which were still closed.
The woman stepped forward and gripped the outer doors. They easily slid open and eventually the elevator’s mechanical workings wheezed to life and cranked both doors to the open position.
The woman’s incredible green eyes met Nate’s as he left the elevator car. She was smiling with a nervous but engaging grin.
“Thank you,” he said. “And good luck,” he added as the doors closed and the elevator screeched off again.
On the 9th floor, Nate’s apartment was just around the corner from the elevators, and the next day, as he was waiting for it to arrive, one of his neighbors stepped out into the hall and locked his apartment door.
The left elevator’s doors opened and Nate was about to board when his neighbor called out to him.
“Whoa,” he said. “Hold up!”
The neighbor trotted down the hall. He was a young man with braids, wearing a pullover and black athletic pants.
“You must be the new guy,” he said as he stepped past Nate, to the elevator.
“Yeah,” Nate said. “I just moved in.”
Nate watched as the young man — feet firmly planted on the floor outside the elevator — reached in and slapped his fingers against the control pad to send it away.
“If you send this one on a vacation, that one will come,” he said, pointing to the elevator on the right. “I’m Tremaine,” he said as he waited for the doors of the left elevator to close. When they did, he pressed the button on the panel in the hall to call the elevator car on the right.
“Neat trick,” Nate said. “I’m Nate,” he said and stuck out his hand. They shook hands and boarded the right elevator for the ride to the lobby.
“Weren’t the elevators part of this building’s renovation?” Nate pondered aloud.
“I don’ know, man, but that bitch on the left is fucking dangerous. Never ride it,” Tremaine said.
Just down the street from the old bank building there was a hole-in-the-wall taco joint called Villa Manana that served a local favorite — red tacos — and it had quickly become one of Nate’s favorites.
It was truly a dive — not a hint of taste in the restaurant’s decor — but he could walk half a block every day and have three red tacos for dirt cheap, and they tasted better than anything he’d had in years.
It was lunch time and he stood in line to place his order with the rest of the workday crowd when he noticed a familiar face. The woman from the elevator was in-line directly ahead of him.
He tapped her on the shoulder.
“Hey! Elevator, right?” he said.
She turned and had a look of annoyance on her face and he quickly realized he’d interrupted her phone call. She had a bluetooth in her ear, and she said “Hold on a sec,” and muted her mic.
“Yes, elevator, right,” she said. Her eyes said, what do you want, I need to finish this phone call.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said in a half-whisper, putting one hand to his chest. “Please finish your call. Just wanted to say glad you made it out!” He smiled and stepped back.
The woman pressed the mute button again and said “Okay,” but her caller had to go, apparently, because she said “Okay, well call me when you get there. OK. See you.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him and he mouthed the word “sorry” again. He felt compelled to do something, to get back in her good graces and erase the bad vibes from their initial interaction.
He looked at the menu board.
Never one to shy away from being a goof, he said “Guacamole,” in a voice that was too comical to be used in public. He paused, waited for it to settle, then said “Guac,” in a loud voice that sounded like a duck asking for the creamy green condiment.
She raised her eyebrows and radiated sarcasm when she asked “Is that workin’ for you?”
“I think the question is, is it workin’ for you?” he asked and smiled. A younger girl standing nearby giggled at Nate’s line and elevator woman shot her a look as if to say how dare you laugh at that. She wasn’t about to fall for this dork.
Sensing he was losing her, he said “Hey, we got off on the wrong foot. Let me go out and come in again.” He pirouetted, right there in-line at Villa Manana, ran his hand through his hair and smiled like a cheesy pickup artist.
“Hi, I’m Nate. My friends over there bet me 100 bucks I couldn’t get the most beautiful girl in the place to have a taco with me. Wanna eat some tacos with their money?” he asked.
“Nice to meet you, Nate. I’m Camila,” she said, “but I think I liked the guac bit better.”
“Camila,” he said and extended his hand. “Nice to have an introduction that doesn’t involve prying open elevator doors.”
They ate their tacos on a bench on the boulevard of the quiet, lightly-traveled street. She thought dogs were great but Nate confessed he was a cat person. They learned they’d both lived in Des Moines, but at different times. And neither of them liked guacamole. Through the brick and greenery-lined streets, they strolled back to Nate’s building, clearly making a connection.
Unfortunately, they found an unexpected scene at Nate’s building.
There were police cruisers, a rescue vehicle, and a traffic cop was directing people off Hempstead, where an ambulance was parked with its rear doors open. Nate’s path to his building took him straight to an officer at the perimeter.
“Excuse me, sir,” he asked. “This is my building. Can you tell me what’s going on?
“Looks like an accident, or maybe a jumper,” he said. “Guy musta been high. He pried open the elevator doors, but the elevator car was still down in the garage. He either jumped or fell 9 stories.”
“Wait,” Nate said. “Nine? What did the guy look like?”
“Young guy, braids,” the cop said.
“Oh God,” Nate said and turned to Camila. “That’s my neighbor.” Nate shared his interaction with Tremaine the previous day and Camila’s eyes welled-up with tears.
“I’m so sorry, Nate. I know you barely knew him but…” She looked at the ambulance. “How terrible.”
“You’re free to go in, but you’ll have to use the stairs,” the cop said.
Nate and Camila entered the lobby and the elevator bay to their left was a hive of activity. The left elevator was propped open and forensic investigators in hazmat suits ascended a step ladder through the hatch in the ceiling of the elevator car. The floor of the car was stained with blood that had seeped in.
“He warned me about that elevator,” Nate said, mostly to himself. “Said it was dangerous.”
Nate and Camila said goodbye in the lobby and hugged. He’d had a fantastic lunch with her, and she had enjoyed herself, too, but there would be other, not-so-terrible days to get to know each other. Nate walked her back out, then began the nine story climb to his apartment.
The official review only took 7 days and found no defects with the elevator. Tremaine’s death was officially ruled an accident, and according to state code, the elevator was allowed to open again.
For weeks afterward, Nate used the stairs a lot. It was inconvenient to spend a half hour going up to his place, and he rode the right elevator as much as he could, but it was a Sunday afternoon when he found himself forced to use the car on the left once again. A tenant who was moving out was using the car on the right to move furniture and Nate wasn’t getting around very well that day — he just couldn’t take the stairs.
The left elevator arrived.
Ding.
He stepped inside. The doors closed, the lights flickered and the elevator immediately began to malfunction. It shuddered and began to descend in a scary, jerky fashion. Nate put his hands against the handrail.
“Whoa, baby. Hold on,” he exclaimed, and suddenly the lights stopped flickering and the elevator returned to functioning normally. The floor indicator ticked past 2, then 1, and the car settled softly at the ground floor.
Ding.
Nate exited the elevator.
What the hell is going on with that thing?
Nate and Camila were staggering and laughing as they returned from a night of drinks at downtown bars. They’d clearly had plenty to drink and were enjoying themselves. There was meaningful eye contact between them as they waited for the elevator in the lobby, and they were too drunk to care if it was the one on the left. Their hands were all over each other.
Nate pressed “9” and they continued to paw at each other in the elevator. Camila pressed herself against the wall in her inebriated state, and Nate leaned-in and kissed her with enthusiasm.
They were each deeply involved in mutual, passionate kissing and groping when the elevator shuddered and the lights flickered. Camila glanced at the number indicator but they continued kissing.
The elevator continued to climb, past 9, and started to accelerate. The number indicator went beyond 12, 14, then 15.
“What…” Nate said.
“What the hell is happening?” Camila cried, and the romantic moment vanished. The elevator shuddered to a stop with a crunch on 17 and the car was quiet.
“Just give it a second,” a drunken Nate said, and tried to kiss Camila again, but she rebuffed him.
As if on cue, the elevator brakes let go and the elevator began to fall. Past 15, past 12, then 9.
“Oh my god!” the woman shouted. “We’re gonna die!” she exclaimed. “Nate, make it stop!”
The floor indicator gained speed and dropped below 8… 7… 6… 5… at a rate that was clearly a deadly velocity. When the floor indicator hit 3, however, something happened.
There was a loud screech, like metal on metal. Nate thought it sounded a little like a woman’s scream. The elevator slowed rapidly and Nate and his companion were forced into a crouching position by the g-forces. Camila fell on her butt as the car came to a stop on the ground floor.
There was a hiss, and the door opened.
“You know what?” she said as she brushed the hair out of her eyes and got to her feet. “It was nice getting to know you. I had a nice time.” She stuck out her hand. It was clear she didn’t mean the words she’d spoken, and she was done. In a daze, without really thinking, he took her hand and she shook it, then quickly departed.
The elevator door closed and Nate stood there, stunned.
In the ensuing weeks, he took the right elevator as often as possible. When the left elevator would open, he’d try Tremaine’s trick, but eventually, even that stopped working. The left elevator opened, he pressed 17, waited for it to screech its departure, then pressed the down arrow on the panel outside the elevators to call the second car.
The elevator on the right never arrived. The car on the left went all the way up to 17, and returned.
Ding.
He could walk down from the 9th floor, or he could ride the left elevator.
He got on the elevator, fully expecting it to fall and kill him, but instead, it descended to floor 7 uneventfully. The car stopped and a very attractive woman got on. Nate smiled at her and when the elevator arrived at the ground floor, he held out his hand to signal her to exit first.
The woman exited the elevator and Nate hung back and took an eyeful of her ass as she did. He stepped forward to exit the elevator, but when he did, the doors closed.
“What the…?” he said as he reached over and pushed the “Door Open” button. The bell dinged and the doors began to open but then immediately shut again.
“Okay,” he said. “What the fuck?”
Nate grabbed the seam of the sliding elevator doors and tried to pull them open. They would not budge. The elevator jolted into motion and began to ascend.
“Goddamn, you’re a temperamental bitch,” he said off-handedly as he fiddled with the control panel.
The elevator accelerated. The behavior of the elevator struck him as more than coincidental, but admitting it meant embracing craziness.
The elevator car raced past 10.
Nate could not believe what was happening, and nobody else would either. Who could he tell?
Hello, police? My elevator is jealous. Please send someone right away.
Again the car shuddered to a grinding stop on 17.
“No,” he said out loud, to nobody, and chuckled nervously, “this can’t be happening.”
The elevator groaned — the sound of rending metal.
“An elevator cannot be jealous.”
There was a loud snap, a clank, and the elevator rattled.
“Are we gonna do this again?” he asked, angry. “Really?”
From somewhere deep in the elevator shaft there was a low, ominous murmur, like a creature awakening from a long slumber.
“Am I talking to a fucking elevator?” he yelled in frustration.
There was a loud crack, like a fractured tree trunk in a thunderstorm, and the elevator began to fall. Nate was mostly weightless in the car and struggled to reach the control panel. When he did, he mashed the buttons to no avail. The car sailed past each floor like he hadn’t pressed a button at all.
“No,” he shouted. “Come on!”
The floor indicator dropped beneath 10… then 8… then 6.
In a desperate act, he changed his tone. “No, honey,” he said, leaning close to the control panel. He ran his hand across the buttons. Some might say he caressed one of the buttons with his fingertip — tracing a circle around it with a feather-light touch.
“Let’s not do this,” he said in a low soothing voice. “We can be the best of friends.”
The elevator emitted a whine like a fishing reel playing out and the car began to slow.
“Yes, honey,” he said. “That’s better. Let’s be friends.”
The elevator car slowed with a perfect, graceful arc of deceleration and stopped on the ground floor. The bell announced their arrival.
Ding.
The doors slid open and Nate exited.
Nate boarded the left elevator on the ground floor, with another woman who had been waiting. He carried a beautiful bouquet of flowers. The doors closed and she couldn’t help but notice he was dressed-up like he was going on a date. “Wow. You smell amazing,” she said.
He smiled, sheepish. “Thank you,” he said.
The car stopped on 4, and she waved as she got off and said, “She’s some lucky woman.”
“Yes, she is,” he thought as the doors closed.
If anybody had been paying attention, they would have noticed the rest of his ride, from the 4th to the 9th floor, took way longer than it should have. Or maybe they would have heard the ethereal mechanical feedback that, to some, might have sounded like a pleasurable moan. But nobody was paying attention. Eventually Nate exited the car on the 9th floor, empty-handed.
He still hadn’t figured out how he was going to get his furniture out of the building without using the elevator.
The man entered the lobby and Nate noticed him right away. You couldn’t not notice him. He was probably 6'4", broad shouldered with gleaming white teeth and medium-length sandy brown hair.
Wow. Good for you, dude.
Nate turned from the mail area, where he’d been loitering, watching for his opportunity, and strode toward the elevator as the adonis boarded. He stepped into the car and the door closed.
The man-god exchanged a brief glance with Nate and smiled the tight-lipped smile of a stranger in an elevator. The car rumbled up to the 9th floor, then shuddered to a stop in alarming fashion. Mr. GQ gripped the elevator railing for stability, and Nate smirked.
It had taken some time, but he had figured it out. He’d just needed to introduce his girl to a new man. The doors opened and Nate turned as he exited.
“She’s a little temperamental,” he said, running his hand across the control panel with a light flourish. “If you have any trouble, I find it helps to say nice things to her.” He flashed a wide Cheshire grin.
The elevator doors closed, and Nate knew he was free.
Troy Larson is a writer, digital content creator, and broadcast veteran with hundreds of podcast and broadcast credits to his name. Reach out on Facebook and on Instagram.