Juliet Waller                                                                                     

The Elevator

The elevator jerked and stopped just as Rohan said the word “constipated.” We both laughed before we got concerned.

Rohan is my neighbor. We don’t know each other that well but whenever I see him, he just tells me things. I like it. I wouldn’t want any other neighbor telling me they’re constipated but Rohan is so earnest. He’s also twenty years younger than me. 

We pushed the button with the bell on it. A voice said, “Stop playing with the elevator button,” and hung up. We pushed it again and the voice repeated the command. Rohan said we should call the manager.

I called and felt very satisfied when the person who answered the phone realized we were not, in fact, playing with the elevator button but actually stuck. She told me she would call someone and it might be a while. Rohan and I made a plan for our future in the elevator. We decided where we would pee if needed, identified the meditation corner, the confessional corner. I’m Jewish so I’ve always loved the idea of a confessional. In my family, we wallow in guilt and worry and then complement each other if we lose any weight because of it. I don’t condone this, it's just, you know, tradition.

Rohan excused himself to go to the confessional corner, telling me he’d always wanted to try confession, not being Catholic either. I decided to meditate even though I didn’t really know how. I thought Rohan would whisper but he just used his regular voice. He said, “Forgive me, Elevator, for I have sinned.” I sat criss-cross applesauce and tried to look peaceful. Rohan continued, “I’m currently dating two girls at once. They don’t know about each other. I think it would make them both sad to find this out. I’ve never done this before, Elevator. I haven’t dated much. And I am having sex with them both.”

Over in the meditation corner, I blushed.  Rohan went on, “But I’m being careful. It’s just, I like being liked but also I like them both. Equally. I don’t know what to do.” He paused for a moment then said, “Elevator, if you’re listening, can you give me a sign?”

And, I kid you not, a deep voice said, “Hello?”

Rohan screamed, a high, hands on his cheeks scream. I started to laugh so hard I almost needed the pee corner.

“Fire Department,” said the voice. “Hang tight. We’ll get you out in a minute.”

Rohan came over to sit with me in the meditation corner while we waited. He didn’t say anything but I could tell he wanted me to tell him what to do.

I said, “I’m not ordained.”

”As an Elevator? That’s ok.”

“Well,” I started then stopped. I didn’t want to give advice. I didn’t want to become responsible for anyone’s heartbreak.

Rohan sighed with enough force that it reverberated around the elevator. It bounced off the confessional corner, the thankfully unused pee corner. In the meditation corner, I felt his sigh land on my shoulder, nudging me to say something.

“What do you want me to say?

Rohan was quick with his response. “That it’s ok?”

“But it’s not ok.”

“Even if they don’t know about each other? That’s not hurting anyone, right?”

Before I could respond, the deep voice of the fireman filled the elevator again and made us both jump. “Rohan.” The fireman didn’t shout but there was a definite, “don’t make me come in there" tone to his voice. “Why do you ask foolish questions when you already know the answer?”

Rohan crinkled his forehead so hard, his eyebrows almost touched. Outside the elevator, a small motor started to whir. I wondered how many firefighters were out there, working to help us get free. Could they all hear us or just the one with the deep voice and the blunt question? Would they refuse to rescue us unless Rohan promised to fix his problem?

I looked at Rohan. He nodded. I pointed to the ceiling, to the general direction of the fireman’s voice. Rohan nodded again. He tilted his head up to the ceiling and said, “I don’t know but I’ll call them.”  I looked at him and I guess my face didn’t hide some of the wariness I felt because he said, “I will!” in a way that was like if an eye roll had a voice. “I will,” he said again this time with more resolve. I believed him.

“Glad to hear it,” said the fireman. “You all ready to get out?”

We yelled, “Yes!” at the same time. A few seconds later the doors opened with a bang and fireman reached in to help us out.

Juliet Waller is a playwright, short story author, and playwriting & theater teacher. Her pieces have appeared in, The Kenyon Review (as a co-author), Seattle’s Poetry on Buses, 3Elements Review with an upcoming piece in Gold Man Review (November). Her plays have been produced by a variety of Seattle theaters. Her work often focuses on large or small disasters and strangers meeting in unusual circumstances.