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Wednesday, February 23, 2000
By Samantha Bennett, Post-Gazette Staff Writer
We've all heard that it's better for you to take the stairs than the elevator. I am here to tell you that this is 100 percent true. Not because of exercise or cardiovascular health. Simply because I have never had the misfortune of getting stuck on a staircase.
I have known for a long time that the elevators in my dentist's building are hateful and stupid. They are the kind of elevators that refuse to come when called, sometimes hovering for minutes at a time just out of reach, one floor above or below, while you fume and sigh and grind what's left of your malfunctioning teeth.
I was hurrying up to the land of paper bibs and polishing compound to get my night-guard adjusted.
For those of you with no stress in your lives, a night-guard is a dental appliance that keeps you from grinding your teeth while you sleep. It is as expensive as it is unappealing.
If you try to talk when you have it in, you sound like the Elephant Man. I consider my night-guard one of the major reasons that I remain unmarried.
So I was cranky and tense as I got on the elevator. The doors rolled shut, and I pressed the button for 6.
Nothing happened.
I looked up expectantly at the lights that show what floor you're on.
Nothing continued to happen. The elevator hovered as if waiting for a tip.
I frowned and pushed the "Door Open" button.
Nothing happened in a slightly more menacing manner.
I jabbed the button. I jabbed buttons for other floors. They all lit up, but nothing budged.
I was alone. I was trapped. A captive on the elevator.
It's so odd when one of our technological servants stages a rebellion. Like last week, with the plumbing. We take things like running -- and stopping -- water and elevators for granted. We expect them to obey our commands and be there when we want them, and not force themselves on us when we don't. It's startling and disturbing when they misbehave.
I considered my situation. I am not claustrophobic. There was no drastic medical emergency, as if I were sick or having a heart attack. The room was not filling with poison gas or even Muzak.
Still, I was imprisoned and late for my dental appointment. Just what level of fuss would be appropriate?
"Hello?" I hazarded in a singsong voice. "Hel-lo, somebody." My voice sounded girlish and self-conscious. I thought for another moment.
"Help!" I called out. "Hello, help, somebody? I'm trapped in here! I'm trapped." I felt profoundly stupid, as if someone had epoxied my butt to a chair and left me.
I took another look at the buttons. You know, I'd always wanted to press the one marked "Alarm." Just to see what it does. This was my big chance.
BRRRINNNGGGG!! Wow! BRRRRRRRRRRRRIIINNNNNNNNGGGGGG!! BRRINNG!
Silence. There was another button with a picture of a phone on it, marked "Call." OK. Let's see what this does.
"Security."
"Uh, hi -- I'm stuck in this elevator?"
"What building are you in?" What?! What building am I in? Where the hell are YOU?
I told him. "Someone will be right over," said the canned voice.
I leaned against the back wall. Could be worse, I thought. At least I'm not trapped in here with somebody unpleasant. I could be trapped with a smelly person. With a contagious illness. And gas.
On the other hand, I could be trapped in here with somebody appealing. An attractive mint-commercial type of stranger, perhaps. Why isn't my life more like a mint commercial and less like a Sartre play?
Just to avoid seeming complacent, I BRRINNGed out a Morse SOS on the alarm. How's that for clever and resourceful?
By golly, I thought, if there are any World War II vets out there in the lobby, I'm as good as rescued.
After about 20 minutes of solitary confinement, I heard movement and the doors rolled open. A distinctly non-mint-commercial guy -- my savior -- eyed me as if I were a spider in his bathtub. I thanked him and flitted past to find the stairs.
No chance I'm going to let myself get shafted again.
Samantha Bennett can be reached by e-mail at: sbennett@post-gazette.com