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Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Instant Karma the Down in the Dirt September-December 2023 issues collection book		get the 422 page September-December 2023 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Unfinished Business

Alan Gartenhaus

    Exhausted, he waited for the elevator and took a halting breath. Business might be business but this hit hard. Everything had been tied down and neatly packaged, or so he thought. The deal would have been good for them and even better for him. That “someday” when he might finally retire would have arrived. He could start watercolor painting again. Make that long-anticipated trip to Venice. Go see the grandchildren.
    Roger entered the elevator, relieved to find it empty. No awkward, polite smiles necessary. He exhaled and leaned forward, his body leaden, and pressed the button for the ground floor. The whir of the overhead motor reminded him of a toy train he’d had as a kid. As many times as he’d ridden in this elevator, he’d never made that association.
    It wasn’t unusual for him to come home late from the office, but not this late. Not without calling to let his wife know. He hoped she had already gone to sleep. Had things worked as planned, he’d have stopped at the liquor store, bought a bottle of rosé champagne, which was her favorite, popped it open before dinner, and announced news of his retirement. What a celebration it might have been. The two rarely kissed passionately anymore; these days kissing communicated affection. But tonight he thought it might have been otherwise.
    As the elevator doors closed, he caught the scent of gardenias, evoking a memory of his mother, a comforting thought on an otherwise terrible day. He was watching the floor numbers on the panel above the door light up––eleven, ten, nine, eight––when the lights inside the car cut off and the elevator stopped abruptly. He was in no mood. He reached forward in the pitch blackness and pressed every round bump on the panel. No response. He groaned with exasperation. Being in complete darkness gave him the willies. His older brother used to scare him with talk of a boogeyman under his bed when they went to sleep. Odd how some things stick.
    Isn’t this the perfect end to a crappy day. His chest tightened and anger built in his gut. He slammed his palm against the buttons. One of these must set off an alarm. Nothing. “Help!” he yelled, using all the breath he could muster. “I’m stuck in this damn elevator!”
    He doubted that anyone could hear him. He’d stayed until well after midnight in a desperate attempt to salvage the buyout. Setting his briefcase on the floor, he reached forward, his hands finding the seam between the elevator’s slick metal doors, and tried to pry them open. They didn’t budge. He tried again, using all his strength. It occurred to him that the cause might be a citywide power outage and that this ordeal could last quite a while.
    His face grew hot. The lack of air, his agitation, and the thumping of his heart against his chest had him breathing shallowly. He removed his sport coat and wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead with his shirtsleeve. He closed his eyes. Though not a prayerful man, he prayed that this would soon be over.
    Of course! he thought. Call for help. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat but the phone wasn’t there. Just reading glasses and a brochure touting a Mediterranean cruise. He’d always told Audrey that they’d go someday. After forty-three years of marriage, she’d earned it. But it wasn’t going to happen without the deal. He checked his other pockets, stunned to realize that he’d rushed out of his office in such a state that he had left the phone on top of his desk.
    The elevator was old. Roger wondered if it might plummet to the ground. He’d once read that the safest thing to do in such a situation was to lie flat on the floor. He leaned against a wall and used his hands to guide himself onto the floor. His back ached and his stomach was on fire. His hands found his briefcase and retrieved a package of antacids. He pushed a capsule from its foil wrapping and held it between his fingers, cursing when it escaped and landed somewhere on the floor. He removed another and put it on his tongue, then took hold of the silver flask filled with Scotch he kept in his briefcase. He unscrewed the top and took a swig. I should have known better than to wolf down a bowl of chili for lunch. He belched before taking another swallow of Scotch. Its raspy burn hit the back of his throat. His father-in-law had introduced him to the elixir years earlier. “Good for what ails you,” the old man used to say.
    Roger inhaled slowly and deeply, trying to calm himself and to lessen the pressure in his bloated abdomen. He eased backward against the wall, resisting the urge to review the failed deal, and focused instead on pleasant things. He thought of his mother. How she used to kiss him good night after tucking him under the covers. He wondered if he’d ever told her how much he’d loved that.
    His dad shook hands but had asked for a kiss on his deathbed, hours from the end. The feel of placing his lips on his father’s unshaven cheek had remained a vivid memory, as did the sour smell of death on his breath. Roger regretted not spending more time with him. He’d always thought there would be ample opportunities, until there weren’t.
    His Hungarian grandmother barely spoke English but her laughter was contagious. When she kissed him she made exaggerated smacking sounds and squeezed his face. On Sunday afternoons she served him coffee with warm milk and toast dusted with cinnamon sugar. She was a sweet, happy soul. Her funeral had been the only time he’d seen his father cry.
    Kisses from his granddaughters were among his favorites. So unbridled and enthusiastic. He wanted to visit them sometime soon. It had been years since he’d last seen them, and they were growing up fast.
    His thoughts drifted to a kiss that hadn’t happened. In eleventh grade his closest friend, Mack, was moving across the country. Mack had come over to say goodbye. Roger was devastated and taken aback by his strong impulse to kiss him. The desire was fleeting and he’d stuffed those feelings away, but he continued to miss Mack and his dark, almond-shaped eyes for years afterward. He’d always intended to contact Mack but never did.
    Ruth Ann had been his girlfriend through four years of college. She was the best kisser he’d known, unafraid and uninhibited. Roger closed his eyes in the darkness, tilted his head to the side slightly, and imagined kissing her. Pictured her beauty and youthfulness. His erection surprised him. That kind of response had become rare. It vanished nearly as quickly as it arrived.
    His fury boiled over, along with a sense of helplessness. The pressure in his abdomen made him feel as if he’d explode and was relieved only slightly when he passed gas. He was confused when his crotch and legs felt warm, then he reached down and touched his pants. They were soaked, as was the floor beneath him. He raised his hand, put it to his nose, and smelled urine. “Please. Get me out of here,” he pleaded.

•••••

    The night security guard stood before the elevator, eager to get to the third-floor break room, pour himself a cup of coffee, and get something to eat from the vending machine. When the doors opened he saw Roger Erickson on the floor, eyes wide open, the muscles in his face slack; a briefcase beside him appeared undisturbed. The man was dead. The guard called 9-1-1.
    “He must have died right after he got on the elevator,” the guard said to the policeman who arrived within minutes. “I stood here, waiting for the car to come down from the eleventh floor. It didn’t stop. And no one was in there with him. I’m guessing he must have had a heart attack or something on the way down.” The guard stroked his stubbled chin and said, “At least it was fast.”

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