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The Elevator Operator

Drew Marshall

    The United States was two hundred years old. America had just celebrated its Bicentennial the week before. The Democratic National Convention was being held at Madison Square Garden.
    I took a summer job as an elevator operator, in a four story loft in downtown Manhattan.
    The building was owned by a Chinese couple. They were the only tenants in the loft. The Lee’s owned and operated a custom art framing business. Their daughter was in town for the summer. She was an Art History major at Cornell University in upstate New York.
    Two huge Doberman Pinchers rounded out the family.
    They were always pleasant, but we never got past the superficial conversation phase.
    Operation of the elevator was simple. A lever enclosed in a cylindrical container controlled the direction and speed of the cab. The lever slid around the top half of the cylinder. Pushing down or counter clockwise would lift the elevator up. Pushing clockwise, would lower the elevator.
    By the end of the first week I had become adept at landing the lift evenly at the landing point, for all four floors and the basement. The gate I had to open and close before starting the cab, served as the fourth wall. There was no door. I would look at the brick wall going up and down to spot the opening on each floor.
    The family arrived promptly at nine every morning. They left for lunch, with both Dobermans by their side, at noon on the dot. Back from lunch at one thirty. The Lee’s left work at exactly five in the afternoon. You could set your watch by their comings and goings. A loud bell went off when the family needed the elevator.
    Aside from an occasional delivery of frames, few people visited this building. Not much to do but read. I loved reading and got through several novels that summer. I would also bring my Rolling Stone magazines from home. I had just renewed my subscription.
    My predecessor had returned to Italy for the summer, due to a death in the family. He was scheduled to be back by Labor Day, and I would return to college for the fall semester.
    The bathroom I used was in the basement. This small space was dimly lit, dank and dirty.
    In this windowless room, aside from the toilet, there was a work bench, a wooden desk and a stool.
    There were several Playboy centerfold pictures on the wall by the desk. One drawer was partially open and I could spot the cover of a Playboy magazine.
    I opened the drawer and there were several more issues inside.

    One Friday morning towards the end of August, after using the toilet and washing, I started to thumb through the Playboy magazines. My desires got the better of me. I checked my watch. It was almost eleven o’clock. It would be another hour before the Lee family left for lunch.
    I grabbed a handful of toilet paper, unzipped my fly and started to shake and bake. Before reaching full throttle and blasting off for parts unknown, the bell rang. It sounded ten times louder than it did in the lift. More like a fire alarm, shrieking through the air and ripping right through me.
    I threw the toilet paper on the desk, and cautiously zipped up my pants. I quickly grabbed the magazines and stuffed them back into the drawer. I took the toilet paper & flushed it down the drain. I flew across the room and jumped into the box, as I called it.
    I slammed the gate closed and grabbed the lever. I started her up abruptly and too quickly. I heard a loud scraping sound. The elevator stopped halfway past the first floor entrance.
    The lever was jammed and wouldn’t budge. I looked up at the upper right hand corner of the gate. It was bent out of shape and had been scraping up against the brick wall. I was trapped.
    I looked up towards the ceiling, cupped my hands, and shouted out that the elevator was stuck and the gate was broken. I repeated this several times, in the hope that the Lees would hear me.
    I tried lowering the elevator by pushing the lever back as much as I could. I was able to slowly lower the cab about a foot. The gate was still scraping against the brick wall. The box stopped once again. That section of the gate was crushed beyond recognition. The lever was loose. I was afraid if I applied any more pressure, it would break off.
    I was now only about two feet from the ground floor. I managed to open the gate about halfway. It was wide enough for me to squeeze through. I jumped out of the elevator.
    I lost my footing and hit the ground. I picked myself up and turned around. I saw the Lees staring at me. Thankfully the Dobermans were not in tow. I heard them barking. They never barked.
    Mr. Lee breezed by me, stuck his head into the opening to assess the damage. He turned towards his family and spoke in Chinese. He then turned towards me.
    I expected to be fired on the spot and held responsible for the damages.
    He asked me if I was hurt and I told him I wasn’t. The man calmly told me he would have the repairman in over the weekend. I should go home and he will pay me for the day. Mr. Lee would see me on Monday morning.
    I apologized several times. He said it was an old building. These things happen. He and his family started back up the stairs and I headed home.

    I was upset about the incident but they never showed any distress and took it in stride.
    I realized a few things that summer. I learned how to be alone and confined to a small area.
    When you are the recipient of an act of kindness and generosity, recognize it and be grateful. Lastly, never masturbate in a filthy basement, when you’re on duty as an elevator operator.

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