Today on my way out of work, I made a horrible mistake. I decided to take the elevator instead of the stairs (who am I kidding, I never take the stairs).
The health and fitness gods were not happy.
Just as we reached the the first floor, the elevator doors fluttered open and slammed shut. Then nothing.
The poor girl stuck with me frantically started pressing buttons.
Showing how poorly I react in quasi-emergencies, I stared at her blankly and took out my phone. To do what, I'm not sure. Perhaps the ghost of Steve Jobs would be able to fix the elevator?
In a moment of brilliance, the other girl and I decided to use the very obvious emergency phone. To my surprise, someone actually answered. But then the person started asking me twenty questions. What is my full name? What is my phone number? What is the building name? What is the building address? What elevator am I in?
Such petty details. She clearly did not understand what a serious problem I had found myself in.
After the interrogation, she said she would "call someone." The other girl and I did not find this reassuring.
I sat down on the grubby floor (which shows you just how desperate the situation was) and did what anyone in this day and age would do. I texted some peeps. So did the other girl. I figured we had been there about an hour when I checked the time. Five minutes had passed.
We sat there for nearly an hour ( an actual hour) when the repairman finally showed up. He called down from the ceiling of the elevator like some type of god and like magic the doors slid open.