To the Elevator Who Tried to Kill Us

I’m worried about you. That was a bold, impulsive move today. What were you thinking? Are you too infrequently used to feel important? Have you lost your sense of value, of purpose? Do the elevator maintenance workers come to the building and forget you’re here?

Maybe you still remember your construction, the glory days when sparks flew and dozens of mechanics worked on you. During those days you were welded, sanded, painted. Men kneeled down and installed computerized mechanisms that brought you to life. You lit up with joy at the prospect of being a moving, animated machine. You would even make sound. You would meet people. Your spirits were elevated.

On your way to Brehm Hall, safely strapped onto a flat-bed truck, you gazed absently at the “WIDE LOAD” sign and the flashing lights. You thought about the days to come. They would be exciting. You would greet people with open doors and eagerly await their choices. “Where are we going: One, two, or three?” You were ready to serve.

The installation was a little awkward. You felt bulky and heavy. You cringed every time you heard your body slam into the opening; the screeching sound of the chains and the cursing sweaty men alarmed you. You suddenly felt doubt. “Where am I?” Nobody answered. The dark hallway ahead stood empty. “Where are the people?” You wondered who would push your buttons, make you light up.

The first few times you were jostled into action felt good. You even moved a little faster than you had to. You wanted to send the message that you could do the job well, perhaps betters than the other two new guys. You would become the favored choice.

But weeks went by, and the hall before you remained dim. You tried switching floors. It was all the same. When you sounded your tones as your doors opened and closed, the sounds echoed throughout the empty space. You saw scores of college students pour in through the front entrance, but seldom did they turn your way. Classes were dismissed, and students ran by you without seeing you. You might as well have been a stainless steel wall.

Occasionally an unsmiling, hurried custodian vacuums your floor and shines up your stainless steel doors and rails. It feels good to have company, and you attempt conversation, chiming a most pleasant “ding” as if to say, “Thank you, my friend.” The custodian’s reply is the sting of Lysol on your buttons.

You realize decades after you were installed that you are an outsider. You think to yourself that you might as well be the only one of your kind on the planet; you never see or hear about other elevators, after all. You blame your pain, your hurt feelings, your broken heart on the architects of Brehm Hall who saw a need for another elevator where there clearly was no call for it. You blame the students and faculty for not being more aware of their surroundings. Can’t they see you? Don’t they know you can help them? In your darkest moments, you blame your creators. They hadn’t succeeded in making you fit enough, attractive enough to fulfill the needs of the people.

Late in the evening, when all the lights are out and you are surrounded by the insensitive Brehm ghosts—who do, in fact, exist—you weep so bitterly that your gaskets rattle, your fixtures shake. You try to get comfortable; you shift from floor to floor, opening your doors wide in hopes of finding someone somewhere who needs you. Nobody is there to comfort you, give you meaning, and you shake with reckless abandon.

When morning comes, you are still drowsy from the restless night. The sun takes hours to finally, reluctantly creep into your tomb. Your doors are closed as you wait patiently, resignedly for the day to end.

You almost didn’t notice us at first. You were deep into your self-loathing when something inside you told you to open up. Five ladies stood outside your doors on the first floor. “Is it summer now?” you asked silently. You saw we were wearing short sleeves and cropped pants, sunglasses perched atop our heads. We stepped inside you and you closed your doors behind us as quietly as possible.

“Where are we going, ladies?” you asked with a cheery tone.

We laughed. You waited as we talked among ourselves.

One of the ladies, a brunette with a huge mouth, turned and looked carelessly at your display. After a second of delay, the brunette loudly punched the buttons for floors two and three.

“You want to go to floors two and three?” you asked, excitedly.

We laughed again. We didn’t know you were irritated. Despite your pain, you lifted us safely to the second floor and opened your doors. You watched as we leaned forward slightly, evaluating the prospects of the second floor. Nobody stepped off, and we laughed again at our own antics.

The anger boiled up inside you until all you could do was rise up to the third floor and stop. You couldn’t open your doors. Your anger was too painful. When you couldn’t hold it any longer, the shaking began.