An Elevated Encounter
by Joseph Kendrick
A man’s feet padded along the empty sidewalk at half past two in the morning. Among the
columns of concrete and glass the city was uncharacteristically quiet. The only sounds being the
mysteriously dull sirens of a passing emergency vehicle, the occasional car vibrating with the
thump of unheard music, and the man’s own footsteps. He continued along the sidewalk,
stumbling over every other crack and swaying from street edge to building side, somehow never
quite making it outside the of lines. He clumsily reached into his cracked leather jacket and
pulled out a cigarette and a cheap plastic lighter and lit it, though not without a struggle. He
inhaled heavily, held it and released a belch of smog in one long sigh. That night had not been
his night.
It was around 3 am when he made it to the front of his apartment building. It was a twenty story
high, shabby looking brick monolith that seemed to contain within it a deep history nobody cared
to uncover. He opened the heavy paint chipped metal door and entered the building.
Once inside he checked on his growing pile of bills in his mail box and again left it undisturbed.
as he proceeded to the elevator. In his current state the stairs would be suicide. He pressed the
button and flinched at the ding as he always did, and waited.
While waiting, the man reached into his back pocket and retrieved his wallet. He opened its
leather lips slowly, as if the reality of it would be different if he just applied a little more patience.
But his only reward was an empty hole. He sighed and put his wallet away. Just as he did the
elevator dinged, making him jump and the scratched metal doors opened.
He hit the button for the 17th floor and watched the doors, waiting for them to close him off from
the world and whisk him away to bed. The doors began to slowly close.
“Hold the door,” someone yelled down the hall.
Without even looking up, he sighed and held the door. His amputation of the world would have
to come from his apartment door.
The caller came to the door and thanked the man. Then he stepped inside and pressed the
button for the 15th floor.
He was an elderly man around seventy if you were being generous. Small and thin, yet an air of
heartiness surrounded him. He wore a blank blue baseball cap on his white haired head and a
long light brown suit coat that looked as if it had just been recovered from a tomb or local thrift
store.
The two men stood in the silence as the elevator lifted, creaking.
The young man leaned against the wall of the elevator, closed his eyes, and sighed. The old
man in front of him shuffled uncomfortably, distributing his weight back and forth, which shifted
the elevator. Though small, the elevator seemed to sway with him.
“Can you stop that?” the young man spat, “You’ll bring the whole god damned elevator down.
It’s probably as old as you, for fucks sake.”
“S-sorry,” the old man said nervously, and quickly stopped.
That’s when the foot tapping began and the young man knew this was going to be the first
elevator ride where he killed a man.
Something inaudible came from the old man’s direction. The young man, tempted to leave the
air still finally replied.
“What?”
I was just asking what’s got you up at this hour, young man? It’s awful late.”
The young man looked at the floor indicator, seeing that it seemed to just be floating over the
13, taunting him.
“Just out for drinks and cards,” he responded, after a few seconds.
“Oh, yes. It’s a perfect day for drhe inking, isn’t it?” shot the old man, with a wry smile.
“And why’s that?”
He flashed a quick glance at the young man, the smile a little wider now.
“We’re still alive aren’t we? Any night that’s still a fact is a good night for drinking, wouldn’t you
say?”
“Yeah, sure, old man,” he breathed out in a chuckle.
The old man smiled and looked forward again. Quiet settled.
The young man looked at the floor indicator and noticed the hand just beginning to initiate
foreplay with 15. First one finger. Then two.
The young man sighed again. He should have risked the stairs.
“So what about you?” the young man said, breaking the momentary silence.
“Me? Just getting out of work,” he took off his ball cap and scratched his snow white hair.
“Been a custodian for 30 years, you think they’d give me a day shift or two before I kick the
bucket. But hasn’t changed yet, so probably won’t change at all.”
The old man placed his hat back and straightened it.
“Ah,” said the young man.
The doors opened at 17. The young man passed the older man without a word and started
down the hall.
“Night,” the old man said.
The young man responded with a flick of his hand without turning around.
Hours passed in a blur and tomorrow became today. The man jumped as the elevator dinged to
let him know it had arrived. The scratched doors opened and before he could even step in, he
saw the baseball cap, then the rest of the old man. The old man smiled.
“Two times in the same week, I think we’re becoming elevator pals,” the old man said, reaching
to stop the door before it closed.
The young man, considering waiting for the next elevator, even though there was only one in the
building, but he was already late as it was. He sighed and the metal doors closed behind him.
The elevator started down with a creak and the young man reached for his earbuds. But before
he could pop them in the old man started.
“Off for another round?” he coughed a chuckle, “seems pretty early for that, though I ain’t one to
judge. This is usually my drinking time too.”
The young man pocketed the earbuds.
“No. I can’t be so lucky. I’m just heading off to work.”
The elevator had come to 11, but hung back a sec to ask someone for the time.
“Ah, a working man! Glad to hear it. And here I thought you gambled to make ends meet,” he
chuckled at this. “Well, you already know where I widdle the hours away at, how about you?”
The old man was completely turned towards the young man, his back to the door. His only
escape. The indicator was loafing around floor 6 now.
“It’s nothing special, just something to pay the bills,” it wasn’t, “just a temporary job till I get back
on my feet.”
“Ah,” the old man huffed, “that’s what I said once too. Just something to feed the family until I
struck it big. 30 years later, wife and kids have passed me by, my wallet is empty, and that job is
the only thing that’s stayed,” he laughed at himself, “But maybe you’ll be different. Live the
dream for me, will you son?”
The ding made the young man jump and the metal doors opened. The old man was still and
looked up at him. He pushed past the old man and sprinted down the hall. He didn’t need
another write up for being tardy.
He braced for the ding of the elevator, and yet he still winced when it came. He prepared for the
reveal of that baseball cap, and yet the reactionary sigh still came. He put his earbuds in fast
enough before the introductory question, and yet he couldn’t hit play fast enough to drown it out,
so he answered the old man, defeated.
It’d been three weeks and at least once, if not twice a day he would run into this man on the
elevator. It annoyed the young man to no end. He did not hate the old man, in fact he found him
quite endearing, but his insistent questions, his friendly jabs, and the constancy of their run ins
maddened the young man. Was it so hard to ask for a solitary elevator ride, where you can
close yourself from the world, lean against the wall, reflect on your shitty life and forget it all.
Because your elevator has just had lift off from that shitty world below and you were now flying
two feet per hour out of the atmosphere, out of orbit, out of this shitty solar system to floor
seventeen. The floor of isolation and beer. The floor where assistant manager Tom can’t yell at
you for not knowing how to tie your tie, where supermarket check out ladies can’t give you funny
looks at the check out and you have to pull out your check list of things you did or didn’t do to
look like an idiot. The floor where old men didn’t pester you with fucking questions about your
fucking day that you’re trying to forget, yet they have to drudge it up because they’re so fucking
alone in their flat on the 15th floor. The floor where….
“Hey, old man?”
The old man was just in the middle of another comparable and relatable life story when he
stopped and looked back at the young man. The elevator hand was just in the middle of 13 and
14.
“Sorry about that, I do go on sometimes. When this old mouth starts a flapping it takes a team of
horses to get it to stop.”
“That first day I met you on here, you pressed floor 15, yet I ended up off the elevator first. Then
every other day you’re on the elevator going down when I’m leaving. If that’s true, then-” The
young man cut off.
“Oh, it’s just these old elevators,” the old mans eyes were off the young man now, starring at the
corner to his left, “They just do what they want no matter what you tell them. It just goes up and
down as it pleases, which I don’t mind none. I’ve got no where to be.”
“It seems pretty consistent to me. Just like you are every time I ride the elevator.”
His face was hidden now under the bill of his hat, but his lips were still in sight, and they
produced a frown.
“I’m sorry, young man. I’m just a lonely old man that doesn’t get out much. These small talks are
the only real conversations I have and I treasure them. So I seek them out. I’m sorry if that
seems strange, but I hope you understand.”
Something wasn’t right. The old man still stared down and his frown still visible. The young man
let off an unintentional shiver and looked up to the floor indicator. 16 and bound for 17, the hand
moving over in quickening bursts, almost in time with his increasing heart beat.
He turned back to the old man, who was in the middle of the elevator, un-moving. The man
jumped at the ding, not startled this time, but excitement, joy to be getting out of here. He’d take
the stairs from now on. He looked to the silver doors, but they didn’t open.
He looked down to see the old man with his hand outstretched. It was on the close door button,
he was still looking down when he began to speak.
“You’re wasting it, you know? You’ve been given a gift and all you do is squander it away on
nothing,” his words sounded different now. Low, yet booming. The old man’s mouth wasn’t
moving at all.
“’Youth is wasted on the young.’ It’s such a trite phrase, but oh so true. I’ve seen it time and time
again. The years you’ve amassed amount to nothing and from where I stand will continue to do
so. I tried my hands at life aznd got jack squat in return. Well, except experience. I know the
answers to questions long passed. With what I know now I know I can do it right. Get back what
I lost and more.”
The man was distressed now and tried pushing passed the old man, but he didn’t budge no
matter how hard he pushed. He was a brick wall.
“Don’t make me hurt you, old m-”
The old man’s free hand shot up to the young mans throat and tightened hard, then lifted him off
the ground.
“It’s not polite to interrupt,” he said, the sound of the voice was not coming from his mouth. It
seemed to be coming from within his coat.
“Youth is wasted on the young, so why should the old not take it as they please?”
Before the young man could lose consciousness from the lack of air, he saw the old mans hand
move from the elevator button and begin to unbutton his coat. The door began to slide open as
well as the old mans coat.
The young man could see his door just down the hall. If he could just break free, he could get
there. Get his gun, call the cops, scream for help. Anything! He just needed to get to the room.
He could be safe in there.
But as his vision began to fade he looked down at the old man, and consciousness let slip his
hopes of escape. Below him, within the coat of the old man, was the blackest black he had ever
seen. A horizontal pit that seemed to go into eternity and around the lining of the coat were red
thin and long teeth, spread open like the jaws of a Venus flytrap. From within the blackness, the
last sentence the man heard belched forth:
“By ending your life, I’ll make it a life worth living. I promise you that, boy.”
The elevator lights flickered and all went black.
The elevator dinged when it came to the ground floor, yet the man did not flinch, nor did his
confident smile crumble. The doors slid open and he walked out. Over by the mail box young
woman was sorting through her junk mail and bills. The man walked by, paused, then turned
around suddenly.
“You’re Stacy, right?”
She jumped nearly a foot off the ground.
“Yes,” she stammered out.
He put out his hand.
“I’m John. I don’t think we’ve met.”
She stared at it puzzled for a moment, then quickly took it.
“Well, a few times actually, but you never seemed to say much.”
The man frowned a bit, but the smile quickly came back.
“Well, since we’ve met, I can skip with all the formalities and skip right to asking you to dinner.
My treat.”
She nervously smiled, looked around quickly to be sure she wasn’t daydreaming again and
looked back.
“O-of course! That would be great!”
“Great,” he smiled back. “We can hash out the details later, but for now, I’ve got to run.”
Stacy waved as John went for the big metal door. She made her way to the elevator with a skip
in her step. Then she stopped and turned around suddenly.
“John!”
John stopped dead with his hand on the door, half in half out. He turned with his smile still and
un-moving.
“Is this your coat and hat on the elevator?” She said kindly.
John sighed and looked back with a smile.
“No, just some bums clothes I would imagine. I’d just throw them out. I doubt he’ll come back for
them anyhow.”
He sent back a wave and was out the door, bathed in the afternoon sun.
The Bus After Midnight
By Michael Bowling
I hate taking the bus. I work long hours at a job that barely pays, across town from an apartment I can’t afford. So, I don’t have a car. I can’t afford a car. So, I take the bus. Now, I get off work late. If I’m lucky I can push the last scumbag customer out the door, and close by midnight. That puts me on the bus-stop around 12:20. The last bus of the night is supposed to be at my stop at midnight. Luckily Gary, the human dumpster masquerading as a bus driver, is always around 30 minutes late. Gary’s poor work ethic is one of the few things you can count on in this city.
Last night, I got out the door and on the bus-stop by 12:15. It was cold out. Colder somehow, in the glass box where the bench sat. I’m not sure who designs these things, but they obviously never waited in one before. The glass walls stop just high enough to direct the icy wind up my pant leg, chilling me painfully to the bone. I waited there for 30 minutes. Gary was really out-doing himself. He must be trying for a raise, I thought.
The bus turned onto the street about two blocks down from where I was. I looked at my watch. 12:47. I began stomping my feet. Partly to keep warm, partly out of impatience. The bus hissed to a stop in front of me. I walked to the door shaking my head out of frustration. The door didn’t open. I looked up. The window frosted over, obscuring the bus’s interior. I knocked on the door impatiently.
“Let me in Gary! I’m freezing my ass off!” I yelled. The door folded open and I looked up to the driver’s seat. A man I didn’t recognize was sitting in the chair, looking straight ahead.
“Where’s Gary?” I asked, stepping up into the bus. He reached out and pulled the handle, unfolding the door behind me just as I got to the second step.
“Gary wasn’t feeling well.” He said flatly, never taking his eyes off the road in front of him.
I shrugged off the impersonal encounter and started walking down the aisle to my usual seat in the back of the bus. The bus lurched forward, almost causing me to fall. I caught myself on an empty seat and turned back to look at the bus driver.
“What the hell!” I shouted toward the front of the bus. There was no response. He just kept looking forward. I turned and began walking again, shaking my head with indignity.
Sitting in the seat at the back of the bus, I now noted the presence of the other passengers. The back of the same seven heads that I was used to seeing every night. I had never looked at any of their faces. They were usually leaned over and looking out the windows, avoiding eye contact. Everyone knew that everyone else on the night bus must be a bunch of demon carnies on their way to the next hell gate. Suddenly, I noticed a bonus hooded figure towards the front of the bus.
Probably a junkie, I thought. Waiting to follow me off the bus and stab me for my $10 wristwatch.
The bus ride home took about 45 minutes to an hour. It wouldn’t take that long if you kept a steady pace, but Gary usually stopped at every bus-stop even if it was empty. The city’s department of transportation made the mistake of paying Gary by the hour. This replacement bus driver wasn’t breaking any records either. On top of that, it was also exceptionally cold on the bus. I looked around and noticed that the other passengers had their windows down.
Who the hell would have their window down in the middle of winter? I thought.
I sat shivering for what seemed like an hour, avoiding the awkward interaction I would have to endure if I confronted any of the other passengers. Three stops later my apprehension abandoned me. I stood up, leaning forward to speak to the man two seats in front of me.
“Excuse me? Can you put your window up? It’s freezing me solid back here.” There was no response. I repeated myself, raising my voice above the cold night air rushing into the window. He ignored me.
“Hey!” I shouted. Still nothing.
“Take your seat!” called the driver, still staring forward.
What in the world? What is wrong with everyone? I felt like I was going insane. I sat back in the seat and tucked my hands in my jacket pockets, in an attempt to conserve body heat.
The bus lurched forward again, the lights flickering in response. It seemed like a long time since the last time I looked at my watch. It was too cold to pull my hand out of my pocket. I was getting drowsy. I bounced my legs, attempting to get my blood pumping and fight of sleep at the same time. I was yawning more and more. I could feel myself nodding off. I fought as best as I could, but I couldn’t hold out any longer. I dozed off.
I awoke suddenly, in the air and then slamming down onto the hard leather seat. The lights flickered. We must have hit a large bump in the road. It was always worse at the back of the bus. The lights flickered again and went out. I rubbed my eyes and straightened up, stretching my arms into the air, yawning. As my eyes focused I thought for a moment that there were new people on the bus. Then I realized that these were the same people, they had all just switched seats. Everyone but the hooded figure. I turned my head towards the window. I jumped, startled. The hooded figure was sitting next to me. Slightly frightened now, I felt the silence pushing in around me.
“How’s it going?” I said sheepishly, attempting to break the tension.
The hooded man continued to look out the window, unmoving. He leaned against the wall at an angle that made it impossible to get a look at his face. I was more uncomfortable than ever and felt a sense of panic prickling through my body. At the next stop, I stood up and moved briskly toward the front of the bus, positioning myself just behind the door.
There were only four or five more stops to before we got to my street. After the first two, I was starting to get that feeling you get when you walk down a dark hallway by yourself. Like someone is watching you, following you. I moved closer to the aisle, resisting the urge to turn and look behind me. At the next stop, I imagined the hooded figure slowly moving toward the front of the bus behind me. I began to feel jittery. We started moving again. I felt a sense of fright welling up inside of me, like a scream was going to force itself out of me. I made a decision. At the next stop, I would get off the bus and walk the rest of the way. I wasn’t too far from my apartment now and my need to get off this bus was becoming unbearable. The bus hissed to a stop. I stood up and began to move toward the door. I looked back to make sure the hooded figure hadn’t moved to follow off the bus. He was still sitting in the same spot I left him in at the back of the bus. That’s when I turned noticed the bus driver. He was staring at me with a monstrous smile on his face. I froze for a moment. This was the first time I had seen him take his eyes off the road. He was staring right at me through the broad rear view mirror. Making direct eye contact. The smile on his face seemed unnatural. It would have been comical if it wasn’t so terrifying. His eyes looked like they didn’t belong to his face. Like something ancient and predatorial was hiding behind a perfectly natural human mask.
“This isn’t your stop.” he said, with a frail sickly voice. I ran through the door and onto the pavement. “See, you, later.” The driver said at an odd slow pace.
I turned quickly not wanting to have my back to him. He was facing forward again. Looking normal again. Now outside in the streetlight, I started to feel silly. Maybe I just needed some sleep. It had been a long day and I was tired.
As the bus pulled away, I looked up. I noticed one of the passengers was still looking out the window. Then, all comfort drained out of me and the terror returned with increased severity. The face of the passenger was elongated and unnaturally pale. It looked on, wall eyed and glassy. The next was pushed against the glass, eyes wide and mouth open as if frozen in mid scream. One after another, the distorted faces creeped by. It was like the driver was intentionally driving slowly enough for me to examine each face. As the last window rolled by, I finally got to see the face of the hooded figure. It was Gary. I mean it had been Gary, but Gary wasn’t there anymore. His face was painfully twisted into a pale, tortured mask. The end of the bus passed me by, picking up speed a little.
“God, I hate taking the bus.”