No love in an elevator

So today I was reading Mouse's entry about malfunctioning elevators, and it totally made me realize that I've never once blogged about my fear of elevators! So I guess today is your lucky day.

I've always been a little claustrophobic and wary of things that move on cables. But what sealed the deal was a fateful Friday morning in Hoover House in the winter of 1998. I had the morning off from classes, either that or I skipped my morning class, so I decided to be randomly productive and do laundry. For the record, I hate doing laundry so much that I should have bought stock in Febreeze, so the fact that I was doing it at all was kind of a miracle.

Hoover House had four floors and an elevator. I lived on the second floor, which was actually the third floor, because the first floor, where the laundry room was, was floor zero (??). I always took the stairs and only rode the elevator for two reasons: someone had recently puked in the stairwell, or I had a basket of laundry to bring upstairs. I was standing in the lobby with my basket, waiting for the elevator, when this guy named Nick walked in the door and headed for the elevators. I knew for a fact that Nick lived on the first floor (which was actually the second floor), so he had no reason to take the elevator -- but looking back, I think he had a crush on me. Regardless of the reason, the fates were smiling that day.

I pressed "2" and Nick pressed "1" and we began to ride in silence. Right away, we knew something was wrong. The elevator started making a horrible grinding noise, the lights flickered, and the car came to a complete stop.

"Oh my god," I said (actually, it probably involved some kind of college dorm-friendly curse word). "I think we're stuck."

We began pressing every button on the panel, including the ones that probably didn't do anything. We even pressed the buttom with the little fire hat. Nothing. I rang the "alarm" button, but since drunk kids did that on a regular basis at 3 a.m., no one paid attention to the sound. At that point, everything gets a little fuzzy and I started to freak out and hyperventilate. This is where lazy-ass Nick who couldn't climb one flight of stairs became my hero. He sat me down in the corner of the elevator with my head between my legs and talked me down from my panic attack. At some point, he began banging on the door and shouting.

To make a 45-minute story short, the dorm janitors eventually heard us. They helped Nick pry the doors open from the outside while he pushed from the inside. When we finally saw daylight, we realized we were stopped between two floors, so Nick shut off the elevator power and the janitors helped us climb out through the tiny space that we had to work with. My poor laundry basket had to stay on the elevator until further notice. And just like that, the elevator was out of service for the next six months. Good thing no one in our dorm used a wheelchair.

So the story has a happy ending, especially after Nick (who was 21) bought me a six-pack of beer. But since that day, I've been a little wary of elevators. I'll take the stairs whenever possible, and when not, my heart rate speeds up and my hand involuntarily clutches my cell phone "just in case."

I tagged this entry "irrational fears," but come to think of it, it's actually a pretty rational fear. Especially for someone who now works on the ninth floor of a 10-floor building. Yikes.