The Elevator

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Please lord I need this.

I’m on my last dollar, my last packet of ramen, my last I-owe-you to the slumlord upstairs. I vaguely know what I’m getting into; something, something, errand runner. I can see through the garnishes and trims of the description, but it didn’t matter. The desperation of money left me sending out applications in a haze.

Nothing has come up yet; interviews have fallen flat, my voicemail is barren, companies have faded out of existence to me. I am invisible, I am fading. I may starve soon, if this interview doesn’t go well.

The office is shit. Empty, dirty, silent. My heels clack on the broken tiles as I walk forward. The secretary sniffles and coughs. I know where I’m going. Third floor, second door on your right, sit anywhere you want. As I chant this mantra the elevator creaks and groans in protest. I step in and the buzzing of the fluorescent light following me. As the doors finally close behind me, the secretary is silenced. Third floor, second door on my right, anywhere I want. The elevator isn’t like the office. It’s empty, it’s dirty, it’s shit, but it’s not silent. There’s a cheap tune in the air, entertaining my brain only for a second, before I get bored with the repetition. As I step in, I’m surprised to see that the elevator was covered in wood, cheap paneling from the 60’s, but wood, nevertheless. The green carpet is still under my feet. Stained from coffee incidents and quick smoke breaks. It’s left the smell too, all too familiar. I inhale cheap two day old coffee and exhale the smoke that has never left the elevator. This elevator is a lung. The lung climbs up in desperation, plagued by demand after demand and filled with smoke. An old man, hunching over and coughing, but it can’t quit just yet. Or it could. It could take us both down, deep into the darkness of the basement, the emergency light blinking red. I would be left crushed in a pile of metal. Gravity. My final master. I wouldn’t have to pay rent anymore. I stare myself down, against the metallic door, the only piece that could escape the tacky vintage decorating. No blast from the past here, only myself and the present. I’m warped in the metal; deformities so small I could slip right past you. My eyes carry weights underneath, dragging my whole face down. My hair used to be a pure black. So shiny and smooth, with a flick of my wrist it could draw anyone’s attention. Always free, never cared for. Now my hair is pulled back so tightly I can feel the migraine creep up my neck so slowly, finger by finger and barely grazing the hairs of my neck. Now age creeps up, slivers of silver poking out, desperate for attention. Three more come after they’re plucked, pulled, purified every time, but I continue anyway. Of course no one knows of these plagues. I’ve locked them all up inside me with my bones and soul. I’ve left a messy trace: hair dye stains my bathroom sink, foundation is scattered across my desk, my lipstick waits patiently in my purse, crying out. Use me again! Use me again! Fix it, fix it! More money on useless shit. When does this elevator stop? How long have I been staring at myself, how long have I been staring back? How long has the piano been repeating that cheap tune, so simple an infant could follow? When did my cheeks look so hollow? When did my eyes look empty? How can I cover up these impurities? There’s no cheap bottle on a shelf for this. There is no woman, smiling, beautiful, who tries desperately to have an air of mystery as she tells me I can be like her. I can be like her if I buy this or that or two or three of these for fourteen dollars. Where is the third floor, where is the second door on the right, wherever I want? When did the elevator get smaller? I wasn’t able to hold out both my arms and graze the walls with my fingertips when I let the elevator swallowed me whole. When did the music slow down? I didn’t notice the piano in the air. Each note dragging on, but the stereo isn’t dying; no it is just alive as ever. The infant plays it note by note separated so carefully you could hear anything that goes on in that room. Their breath, their heartbeat. The heartbeat, the piano going in my head. In this elevator. In this office. I can’t take this anymore. This anxiety, on my back, pulling at me. If I took off this shirt, unbuttoned it button by button, would I see those scars in the metallic doors? The red, the clumps of skin missing, because of this anxiety? Would I see my bones, my soul, everything I have hidden underneath my perfect skin and perfect hair? No. It would only be me, holy me. With pure white skin, unaffected, save for moles and freckles. More impurities to cover up. Third floor, second door, anywhere I want. Where are you? The elevator snaps it’s fingers in my face, as if to wake me up. It’s not my time yet. My salvation should be here, where is my salvation? The third floor, the second door, anywhere I want. The screen above the buttons mocks me. The eye blinks out a glowing red two. This isn’t the third floor, this isn’t the second door, this isn’t anywhere I want. Jesus fuck. I can’t do this any longer. He walks in. A man, laughing and calling out to his colleagues, or maybe even his friends, saying goodbye. His laugh doesn’t stop till the doors close behind us, then the elevator takes this coat off of him, so polite. It is just him, no laughter. The act of laughing, that is all it is, an act. For an audience. I am not his audience. A nuisance. I am a nuisance. I envy him. The nine to five job, the cubicles, the bland white shirt and black tie. I envy his rewards. The steady paycheck, the roof over his head, the freedom- oh the freedom. There is no makeup for him. No tears prickling the eyes from waxing, no looking over his face a dozen times for any sign of hair. He smiles, not out of the kindness in his heart, but out of pity. New? Interview. That is all, for the next eon in the elevator. I stare back at my metallic image. Gruesome, deformed. I stare at his. He stands up straighter, a ruler. His hair is combed back perfectly, nothing out of line. His tie hangs from his neck, inviting, no, tempting. There is no slight deformity in his metallic self. He knows this. I know this. I am at my limit, in this elevator. We are now shoulder to shoulder. The air is stale, filled with sweat. My upper lip begins to drip, and I have a nice glow of sweat on my forehead. I see him in the corner of my eyes. He is dry, fine, unfazed. There is only enough room for one in this elevator, and the elevator has chosen him. No one chooses me. He catches me staring, from the corner of my eye, and smiles. There is no concern, no worry, no humanity in his eyes. There is malice, there is snide, there is an air of superiority. No more. My blood boils, my fist shakes, my eyes break loose with tears. No more.

The elevator opens again, with that ding. My savior, the red number three looking down at me. His lifeless eyes looking up at me.

I stare out into the barren office, with sniffles and coughs, and hushed whispering. The fluorescent lights slowly swing back and forth, back and forth. Third floor, second door, anywhere I want. Anywhere I want. I look down at my hands, no longer beautifully manicured. No longer untouched, pure, compliant. They are claws, soaked in red and drips down, on to my heels. They are mine. I look down at him again. His heart beats in my ears, in my chest. There is a thrill I haven’t felt before. The red smears against the elevator button. The doors creak and groans close again, unsure where to go. Up or down, there is not a difference anymore. Not for me. I look for my metallic self, but she has left. She’s scared to be alone with me now. She doesn’t know what I’ll do. What I’m capable of anymore. The man has left, the red has left. I am all that remains. There is no job, no money, no apartment, no foundation, no lipstick waiting patiently in my purse, no man, no third floor, no second door on my left, no interview. No anywhere I want. I need this. Please Lord.