In it’s day The Elevator was a force to be reckoned with. Then one fateful day in May The Elevator met a feisty attorney who hadn’t bothered to dye her roots.
The night before the attorney had a physical altercation with her teenage daughter. She described, in detail, the conversation that preceded the time she “slapped Hell outta the little bitch” as she tells it. Well, apparently, the lawyer wasn’t done slapping Hell outta people because she verbally bitch slapped the building manager and threatened a lawsuit.
Within a week there was a crew out working on The Elevator. There are three in the building. I think of them collectively, as One. The Trinity of Elevators. Because they are all batshit crazy and they will cut you.
The crew came and shut each elevator down, one by one. The building manager hired security guards to monitor the other elevators being used so Crazy Lawyer Lady with Roots wouldn’t sue the britches off ’em.
They finished the last elevator late last week. The doors of the elevator were open but the car was nowhere to be seen. It was a mostly empty shaft, some cables and cobwebs. A small group gathered, gaping into the emptiness of the elevator shaft, hoping perhaps to catch a glimpse of the Heart of the Beast. Like mana from the sky, as the Bible puts it, suddenly a handful of metal washers and bolts came crashing down through the shaft, nearly missing the upturned visages of the idiots looking in. They bounced and clanged around, someone exclaimed, “Oh!” One of the washers rolled into the lobby spinning like a coin before finally settling flat.
One last Fuck You from The Elevator as it died. A middle finger to the masses. Or maybe it was an “I’ll be back, bitches” because everyone knows an Elevator with a spirit never really dies.