Trapped in a Hot Box
I used to be a pretty carefree person. Or at least that's how I remember being when I reflect on my younger self. With the passing of time I've collected some neuroses though. Around the time I met my husband I remember feeling acutely aware of how fragile and precious life is. I often had this uneasy feeling that something terrible would happen to him or his kids while we were apart. The logical part of my brain told this scaredy pants to relax but the anxiety lurked below the surface nonetheless.
About a year back K and I were running errands on a Saturday afternoon when a driver made a left turn into my vehicle and totaled my car. We walked away bruised but in one piece. The physical signs healed, but I now drive gripping the wheel with white knuckles and gasp at perceived near misses far too often. I guess the psychological marks take longer to heal.
My point in mentioning all of this is that generally I am the kind of person who thinks about worse case scenario moments a handful of times every day. Walking the dogs with my step kids I picture a car racing around the corner and hitting us. Or I'll walk out to the balcony of my office on the eleventh floor of our building and envision a person teetering on the ledge of a nearby high rise, ready to jump. These flashes send a jolt of adrenaline through my body before my sound mind can tell my neurotic one to calm the hell down.
The fire alarms went off in our building at work yesterday. When you work in the penthouse, taking the stairs eleven floors down, teetering in three inch heels with the threat of death by flame you realize that all of your neurotic worries are actually founded. We descended the stairs as fast as stilettos allow and made our way outside. As the building emptied out of mostly medical office staff four fire trucks full of muscled men arrived to save the day.
After a few minutes we were told it was a false alarm and safe to return. Throngs of women filed into the lobby and the awaiting elevators. My five coworkers and I took the next available elevator and it quickly filled up with ten more women. As the doors closed I said to Sarah, "My anxiety would be really high, smashed in here like sardines, if I weren't a whole head taller than everyone else." We laughed.
The bright red digital numbers clicked upwards past floors three, four, and five. And then suddenly the elevator stopped and then dropped a half a floor or so down. Two women screamed and a few more gasped. The lady closest to the keypad started pressing buttons to go up, down or open the doors. Nothing worked. We pressed the HELP button. An operator answered calmly and was met with several hysterical requests to get us out here, we're trapped! We were told to wait and they will send help.
It doesn't take very long for an elevator filled with people to start getting hot. It was one of those rides where you are touching the stranger next to you by necessity- an experience that is uncomfortable if you are riding for the few seconds it takes to ascend a building; an entirely different story when you are trapped.
You could feel the electric energy of fear within the box. We've all seen too many movies. My mind started racing with scenarios where we were trapped for hours and the air is running out like sand slipping through an hourglass. Or whatever electrical malfunction created this broken elevator, causes it to suddenly plummet six floors down. I wonder if we would survive and instinctively press my palm against the wall I'm wedged into to brace myself for the impending fall.
Some people make jokes. Others take charge and get bossy. Others still take selfies.
My favorite is the older woman in the corner who says, "Let me call the doctor. He'll come rescue us." Clearly she's worked for her doctor for a long time and believes wholeheartedly he will save us. It is heartbreakingly touching. And delusional. We're going to need those firefighters to get us out of here.
I've taken this elevator hundreds of times over the years. And in fact, I've thought about what it would be like to be trapped. Living in earthquake ridden Southern California I always imagine inopportune places to be caught in a quake. Like an elevator. Or in the stirrups at the gynecologist's office. But when I imagined being stuck before I never envisioned being sardined into this five by four foot space with a dozen other people.
I had to summon my happy please to not lose my shit. With the hot lights of the elevator beaming down on me and the trickle of sweat rolling down my spine, I closed my eyes and took deep breaths. The thick, sticky air in that death box was just the warm, humid climate of the Caribbean. I was surprised by how calm I felt in spite of my circumstances.
The fire department had never left and when they learned that a boatload of ladies were trapped in an elevator they suddenly had a very valid reason to stick around. They talked us through what would happen- the turning off of the electricity to the elevator, how they would have to manually lower it down to the next floor so that we could get out. We pleaded with them to please pry open the doors so that we could have some air. When they did you could hear one of them say, "Whoa!" as the muggy air rushed out.
It wasn't long before we were freed, maybe twenty minutes or so. It felt like an eternity. I took the stairs six flights up- I just couldn't bring myself to getting in another elevator so soon after the trauma. When I got to our suite my hair was plastered against my forehead with sweat, rings lined my underarms. It took a moment to catch my breath both from the stairs and the shock of it all.
One of my fears had come true. But I survived. Actually better than I expected. At least I can put to rest the trapped in an elevator fear. I know how that one turns out.
About a year back K and I were running errands on a Saturday afternoon when a driver made a left turn into my vehicle and totaled my car. We walked away bruised but in one piece. The physical signs healed, but I now drive gripping the wheel with white knuckles and gasp at perceived near misses far too often. I guess the psychological marks take longer to heal.
My point in mentioning all of this is that generally I am the kind of person who thinks about worse case scenario moments a handful of times every day. Walking the dogs with my step kids I picture a car racing around the corner and hitting us. Or I'll walk out to the balcony of my office on the eleventh floor of our building and envision a person teetering on the ledge of a nearby high rise, ready to jump. These flashes send a jolt of adrenaline through my body before my sound mind can tell my neurotic one to calm the hell down.
The fire alarms went off in our building at work yesterday. When you work in the penthouse, taking the stairs eleven floors down, teetering in three inch heels with the threat of death by flame you realize that all of your neurotic worries are actually founded. We descended the stairs as fast as stilettos allow and made our way outside. As the building emptied out of mostly medical office staff four fire trucks full of muscled men arrived to save the day.
After a few minutes we were told it was a false alarm and safe to return. Throngs of women filed into the lobby and the awaiting elevators. My five coworkers and I took the next available elevator and it quickly filled up with ten more women. As the doors closed I said to Sarah, "My anxiety would be really high, smashed in here like sardines, if I weren't a whole head taller than everyone else." We laughed.
The bright red digital numbers clicked upwards past floors three, four, and five. And then suddenly the elevator stopped and then dropped a half a floor or so down. Two women screamed and a few more gasped. The lady closest to the keypad started pressing buttons to go up, down or open the doors. Nothing worked. We pressed the HELP button. An operator answered calmly and was met with several hysterical requests to get us out here, we're trapped! We were told to wait and they will send help.
It doesn't take very long for an elevator filled with people to start getting hot. It was one of those rides where you are touching the stranger next to you by necessity- an experience that is uncomfortable if you are riding for the few seconds it takes to ascend a building; an entirely different story when you are trapped.
You could feel the electric energy of fear within the box. We've all seen too many movies. My mind started racing with scenarios where we were trapped for hours and the air is running out like sand slipping through an hourglass. Or whatever electrical malfunction created this broken elevator, causes it to suddenly plummet six floors down. I wonder if we would survive and instinctively press my palm against the wall I'm wedged into to brace myself for the impending fall.
Some people make jokes. Others take charge and get bossy. Others still take selfies.
My favorite is the older woman in the corner who says, "Let me call the doctor. He'll come rescue us." Clearly she's worked for her doctor for a long time and believes wholeheartedly he will save us. It is heartbreakingly touching. And delusional. We're going to need those firefighters to get us out of here.
I've taken this elevator hundreds of times over the years. And in fact, I've thought about what it would be like to be trapped. Living in earthquake ridden Southern California I always imagine inopportune places to be caught in a quake. Like an elevator. Or in the stirrups at the gynecologist's office. But when I imagined being stuck before I never envisioned being sardined into this five by four foot space with a dozen other people.
I had to summon my happy please to not lose my shit. With the hot lights of the elevator beaming down on me and the trickle of sweat rolling down my spine, I closed my eyes and took deep breaths. The thick, sticky air in that death box was just the warm, humid climate of the Caribbean. I was surprised by how calm I felt in spite of my circumstances.
The fire department had never left and when they learned that a boatload of ladies were trapped in an elevator they suddenly had a very valid reason to stick around. They talked us through what would happen- the turning off of the electricity to the elevator, how they would have to manually lower it down to the next floor so that we could get out. We pleaded with them to please pry open the doors so that we could have some air. When they did you could hear one of them say, "Whoa!" as the muggy air rushed out.
It wasn't long before we were freed, maybe twenty minutes or so. It felt like an eternity. I took the stairs six flights up- I just couldn't bring myself to getting in another elevator so soon after the trauma. When I got to our suite my hair was plastered against my forehead with sweat, rings lined my underarms. It took a moment to catch my breath both from the stairs and the shock of it all.
One of my fears had come true. But I survived. Actually better than I expected. At least I can put to rest the trapped in an elevator fear. I know how that one turns out.
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