Too Absent Herald

Episode Two

Where was I? Oh, yes, in the elevator . . .
As with every other moment in my entire life (from about 9 yrs on) several movie clips pass through the transom of my mind. Sadly, Shallow Hall is first. But that’s not going to happen [not the pants-off part, I made a vow once, in boarding school, in a secret cave, with my other pale-faced, clean-cut, devotees of the plane of the flat front, to never wear sweatpants or even shorts in public; so the pants were staying on].

But I digress. I am trapped in an elevator. The cinematic thoughts truly began to take hold as I examined my cell. The lights were on, and the ventilation fan in the ceiling was still running. The ceiling! A-ha! There was a decorative grating, but that would pop right out. The door around the fan wasn’t as big as the one in Silence of the Lambs, but . . .

Then I wished I actually wore the leatherman in a little pouch on my belt. A moment later I was glad I did not.

Anyway. . . Let’s take a close look at the “control panel.” You got floor buttons. All un-responsive. There’s a yellow button marked “Alarm”, but let’s not be rash. There’s a red switch marked “Run/Stop” but I didn’t want to risk losing power. There were four or five locks, all switched to the appropriate “ON” position, and I was honestly sad that I didn’t have a Bic pen. Of course, the green “Door Open” buttons were unhelpful.

That leaves me with the yellow “alarm” and the ever-present, and eager-to-use-at-every-time-but-the-present Telephone Receiver behind the “certificate” stating that this elevator was inspected in April, 2004, and is “Certified” until December, 2004. Right.

Wait a minute. 2004?

Yeah.

———–
P.S. Guess what movie is on in the other room as I wrote this. There’s a clue in the syntax.

P.P.S. Battles and Casino are excluded.

The city where the mass transit (the “T”) is driven like a fifteen year-old learning a standard shift. And what is that noise? And why does the ground shake?

I have to give it up to US Airways, though. For a company run worse, financially, than Argentina (or America), they put up a good front. I was able to book a one way ticket with my miles, and leave my return open ended. Then, at Caswell’s (more, below), on dial-up, I booked another one-way back. Just now, at the counter (the Shuttle, man! Where’s the Shuttle counter? I have business…) I need to sit across from those three guys in grey slacks and white socks, more interested in Apple stock than products.

. . . So I get off the shuttle, and it’s snowing in Boston (hum a few bars, Sammy). Outside the terminal, I can just barely smell the graft wafting across the harbor from the big dig.

I stayed at a Courtyard in Revere. I checked in fine, asked for the smoking room, and arranged for the wake-up (Argeiphontes help me, at 6:15). The room was on the 1st floor, one floor above the lobby.

It wasn’t until I got to the room that I realized, of course, that there would be no ashtrays. Asking for a smoking room is so unusual, so bizarre, it has come to be this passive crime to acknowledge the act. On the way to the hotel I passed Suffolk Downs, and a Dog-racing Track; but I guess I’m beyond the pale. I should have asked to see Doyle Lonigan.

So [in the format of Bright Lights, Big City],

You go to the elevator. You press the down button, wiping the coke from your nose in the reflection (gold) of the elevator door. You do not show that you are fienin’. You are cool.
You jump at the ding of the machine. You enter. You press [star]L.
You grip the railing, ready to do a few chest dips once the door closes.

And then . . . Nothing happens. The door closes, there is the sound of pneumatic air escaping, somewhere. But there is no movement.

That’s right. That’s what happened to me within 30 minutes of arrival in the greater Boston area. Here’s the interesting part: Noticing how long it takes for my own consciousness to come to grips with the fact that THIS IS HAPPENING. I am TRAPPED in an elevator.

Tune in tomorrow to find out

if I got out of the elevator and what hilarity-slash-absurdity was involved.

why I wasn’t really scared until the next day, at a Starbucks, when I heard a voice say “Bill?”

what REALLY happens at the WONDERLAND station after the T stops running.

and, of course, what sort of pure glycerin they were passing off as soap, and that I still shaved with, and hence looked like an extra from “I Spit on Your Grave” all during the conference.