How I Got My Groove Back

There are several non negotiables of my freelance workweek, carefully maintained so I do not devolve into a cave troll.

I shower and don a Proper Outfit, even when working from home. I block off writing time in my calendar, as I would an important meeting. My noise-cancelling headphones are always close at hand. But the most hallowed, and treasured, touchstones of my week are my regular co-working dates with other writers.

These days pull me out of my pattern of hunching over my laptop like a sad, typing shrimp, chewing my lip and muttering to myself. It’s a balm to work alongside someone who understands the shape of what you’re attempting — and where you’re struggling. An honorary colleague.

My dog, Gnocchi, is less amused by such days, when she is left alone and — horror of horrors — gated in the kitchen. Most days, she’s easily lured by a single blueberry. But earlier this week, as I was headed to co-work with Jillian, Gnocchi evaded my grasp for the better part of an hour, dashing and ducking like a maniacal imp. By the time I coaxed her into captivity (using blueberries and cheese, arranged in a little canine plateau de fromage), I was officially late.

*

I rushed out the door and into the elevator, where I pushed the button marked “L,” for Lobby. The doors closed. Then nothing.

I huffed a huffy little huff, as I was already behind schedule and not in the mood for elevator shenanigans. Multiple seconds ticked by, and the cab did not move. This didn’t look promising, but I opted for a few more moments in denial. Maybe it needed a minute to think, like an old laptop. It’s freezing out, I reasoned, and we’re all a little creaky.

As it seemed we hadn’t budged, I tried the “Door Open” button, in the hope I could simply exit back onto my floor. This proved to be a grave error. The cab grumbled. It trembled. It lurched with such outsized fury as to suggest my imminent doom. It continued this dance — grumble, tremble, lurch! — on a one-minute loop, for what felt like the rest of eternity.

My trapped status now undeniable, I pushed the “CALL” button, a little metallic circle I’d regarded hundreds of times without ever considering its function. A red light flashed, indicating my call was “received.” Then nothing.

Next I tried the “ALARM” button, which until this point seemed put there purely for the amusement of small children, who pressed it with reckless abandon. It sounded a bell I’d heard dozens of times. Again, nothing.

<Grumble, tremble, lurch!>

Finally, I called down to the building’s front desk, hoping David, the very kind and capable doorman, could come to my rescue. “I’m on it,” he said, with a nonchalance that suggested a) he is very good at his job, or b) residents get stuck in elevators all the time and this is old hat. I suspect it’s a little of both.

“I’ll try to get you out of there as fast as possible,” David assured me.

Which introduced the possibility that it would not be fast at all.

Time passed. Plants grew. The sun made its steady arc in the sky. At least, I assumed as much, but could not confirm this as I was trapped in an elevator.

I heard the building’s second cab gliding along without issue, its merry dings an affront to my crumbling schedule. People entered. People exited. It sounded nice.

My phone rang. David.

“Hey, just wanted to let you know I’ve spoken with the elevator technician, but we’re still waiting for an ETA.”

<Grumble, tremble, lurch!>

Up until this point, I’d managed to stay calm, but now hot panic rose in my chest. How many grumble-tremble-lurches did this elevator have left in it?

“Sounds good, thanks!” I was aiming for casual, but it came out sounding like a squeezed hamster.

“Don’t worry,” David said. “There won’t be any Mission: Impossible stuff.”

I felt reassured for about three seconds, until images of cables and metal spikes danced into my mind. He promised to keep me apprised of any updates.

And then I waited.

And waited.

When I boarded the elevator, innocent creature that I was, I was dressed for frigid temperatures — shirt, sweater, coat, hat. I was sporting double socks inside my boots! Little did I know I’d be spending the afternoon in a little floating box.

My bag was packed for a day of work — laptop, notebooks, water bottle, snacks. On the one hand, I’d be good for a while. On the other, it was getting heavy.

In the grand mélange of memory, there are those random bits that stick with you — facts, quotes, scenes from movies. One item that’s taken up permanent residence in my brain is a blurb I once read in a women’s magazine about dirty objects. The gist was that some scientific person tested an assortment of assumed-to-be-vile things (a subway pole, a gas station pump, playground equipment) and the nastiest, most bacteria-laden of them all was…a handbag.

People have a tendency to put purses and totes on the floor, in public places, where they collect all manner of filth. The blurb went on to share the fact that has never left me, and which I now fear may never leave you. I’m paraphrasing here, but in essence, “every purse tested was absolutely covered in microscopic feces.”

I have never placed a bag on the ground, ever again. And I wasn’t about to start now.

I scanned the elevator floor, marked with salty footprints from the recent snowstorm, and shifted my tote to my other side. Sitting remained out of the question. But eventually, I feared we might get there.

I used this opportunity to practice box breathing — in for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four. I’d describe myself as mildly claustrophobic — I’d hesitate to be a contestant on Traitors, where cast members are routinely buried; an escape room is not my idea of a good time. But I’ve never struggled with elevators. I wondered if this might change.

“Are you STILL in there?” my husband texted. Yes, yes I was. “I hope you don’t need to pee!” And I didn’t, until that moment.

My phone rang. David again.

“Hey Caroline, hang in there.” (A little elevator humor.) “The technician should be here soon.”

<Grumble, tremble, lurch!>

Soon, I discovered, is relative.

*

Some minutes passed — eight? 80? Who can say? — yet I hardly noticed. By this point, I’d become one with the elevator. It was cozy. Minimalist. Free of expectations. A little cubic vacation.

Just as I grazed that fabled point of acceptance, there came the sound of a great metallic skritch. At last, the door slid open. A man in a black jumpsuit and knit cap stared back at me.

I stumbled out of the elevator like I’d just returned from a month at sea. Improbably, I was at my front door. Hours had passed, yet I’d gone nowhere. “Thank you!” I sputtered to my deadpan rescuer, who couldn’t have been less phased.

“Have you never gotten trapped in an elevator before?” he said, in a way that 1) inspired little confidence in the smooth operation of elevators, and 2) suggested he pegged me as roughly 3000 years of age.

“I have not.”

“Huh. Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

*
As I would hate to leave you with both a fear of placing bags on the dirty, dirty ground AND the perils of boarding a lift, I did a little research on just how common elevator stoppage actually is. Apparently, getting stuck is “very, very rare.” (2 verys!) Some estimates place the risk at “1 in 100,000,” while others say it’s “as low as 1 in 16 million.” While those are some disparate figures, we can agree that the chances seem small.

I guess the technician found me seasoned. And the elevator found me special.

*

Later that evening, mere hours after the incident, I sat down to dinner and exclaimed I was “so glad I got stuck in that elevator!”

With a bit of distance, it struck me as rather hilarious.

Sure, it rankled my nervous system and screwed up my plans, but it also forced an intermission I wasn’t giving myself. When I rushed onto the elevator, I was a cartoon with a chaotic thought bubble blooming above my head, embroiled in how much I had to do, what I hadn’t yet done, and the dwindling time in which I had to do it.

“HA!” said the elevator. It got the last word.

I finished none of what I’d planned that day. But I made a bunch of notes that would become this piece, and thoroughly enjoyed the process. I remembered why I love this whole business of writing — I am not merely a slumped, typing shrimp, but an antenna for human experiences, ever attuned to moments. I’d almost forgotten how writing makes you hungry for the beautiful and surprising and curious and quietly profound, for threads to spin into stories, for sparks to weave into something you can share. Writing has trained me to dig for the metaphor in anything. To take an afternoon where nothing really happens — I stood around, I pressed a few buttons — and extract 1,617 words out of it. And love every moment. If that’s not fun, I don’t know what is.

I’d been dangerously close to forgetting this, until that faulty box helped usher it back into my consciousness. Improbably, a journey to nowhere brought me right where I needed to go.

Thanks for joining me on this ridiculous interlude.

There is no card today, as I just shared this reading on Thursday.

As always, thank you for being here. ❤️