| Up: New York City | [Related] «^» «T» |
Wednesday, April 30, 2003
Elevator
By Paul Ford
Making a terrible noise.
I'd had this long meeting. Now I was on my way to a second meeting, running 10 minutes later than the 30 minutes later I'd warned them I'd be, and, arriving at the right building, waiting long moments for the slow elevator, I got on, punched the 12, and, given a minute alone as I ascended, I thought, I don't know what to do about [certain key choices and relationships in my life]. I just don't have any clue. Then I leaned my head against the back wall, and moaned (MP3, 248K).
The elevator stopped suddenly, on the second floor, and my moan petered out. A blonde man got into the car. The door closed. He eyed me. I was a full foot taller than him.
“This elevator is going up?”
“To the 12th floor.”
“Shit.” He took a breath, shuffled his feet. At about the fifth floor, he asked, “That you screaming?”
“Yeah.” That didn't seem to be enough. “I had a frustrating meeting.”
“Just making sure.”
“One of those days.”
“I understand.”
“At least I wasn't naked.”
“I appreciate that.”
This piece is sponsored by Christian Crumlish, who in addition to sending me cold, hard scratch, has done me the service of telling me about the occasional typo. I think you should visit Christian's A Supposedly Staggering Infinite Work of Heartbreaking Illumination I'll Never Read.
![[Top]](art/EndFleur_40x21.gif "Top"){kind=small}
