Lexi: Fine. But maybe I’ll pull up some plant facts from the web and read them off in their vicinity. Consider it a last-ditch effort.
Me: HAHA. Sounds like a plan.
Lexi: Why are you laughing? I’m not joking.
I bite my lip and chuckle to myself. Lexi is on the autism spectrum and sometimes doesn’t interpret humor in the same way I do. She’s also a million times smarter than me, however, so in all honesty, I usually just default to her opinion.
Me: Oh sorry, Lex. Of course. You can tell me some of the facts the next time I see you.
The left-hand elevator dings, and I step inside, the doors sliding closed in front of me.
Lexi: Are you considering a garden?
Me: No. Not exactly.
Wes and Winnie’s brownstone has a backyard. My apartment is located inside a high-rise with only Central Park as the closest source of nature. Pretty sure I’d get arrested if I started digging up the grounds.
Lexi: Then why do you want to know facts about plants?
I chuckle again, shaking my head and poise my phone at my fingertips to type another response, but the elevator cart rocking to a hard stop forces my attention. Mere seconds later, the power goes out completely, and the emergency lights inside the cart illuminate.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
I furrow my brow and hope this is only a momentary pause in power, but when nothing changes, it’s pretty fucking obvious that I’m trapped in an elevator…again.
But this time, there’s no gorgeous woman by the name of Maria to keep you company.
My mind could dive deep with thoughts of her or the reality that a month has passed without her following through on using my number, but clearly, I have something that’s a little higher priority to deal with at the moment. Like getting the hell out of another elevator.
Get your shit together, New York power grid.
Even with the reliable staff of my building who are probably already on the case, there’s no way I’m going to wait around to be rescued. After watching the firefighters work a couple weeks ago, I’m pretty sure I can get out of this fucker myself if I try hard enough.
I move to the doors swiftly, tucking my phone inside my pocket and studying the seam between them. They look spring-loaded, but there’s enough of a gap that I think I can get just enough traction inside the seam to budge the entrance open.
I scrape my fingers into the notch between the doors and push as hard as I can until they start to give way and sluggishly slide open. It hurts like a motherfucker—my fingers, no doubt, will be bruised and bleeding—but once I manage five inches of space between the doors, they start to move easier.
Thank fuck.
I peer out of the cart and realize two things—I’m halfway between floors, and thankfully, the doors to the floor above me have glitched open enough that I can get my body through without having to strong-man them open. The fall to ground level is nothing to snub my nose at, but since I’ve never really been afraid of heights and have a long history of doing reckless shit with my brothers, I don’t hesitate over the risks.
Right into action, I pull myself up and out of the cart and onto the sixth floor of my building.
I dust off my now-sore hands and push to standing, but when my ears catch the faint sounds of the word help coming from the other elevator shaft, I rush over and put my ear against the closed doors.
“Help!” I hear a desperate woman’s voice call. “Can anyone hear me? I need help!”
“Hello! Can you hear me?” I yell back, hoping to reassure her that someone’s here and that help is on the way.
“Hello?” she yells back, her faint, feminine voice sounding both strong and terrified at the same time. “Is someone there?”
“I’m here!” I scream again, this time a little louder. “Have you tried the emergency phone?”
“It doesn’t work!” she yells back.
Of course it doesn’t. Fucking hell.
“Do you know what floor you’re on?”
“I think I’m on the sixth!” The panic in her muffled voice is unmistakable. “And I really need to get out of here! Please help!”
There is no way on God’s green earth I can just leave this woman stuck inside an elevator when she sounds like she’s in distress.
Okay, she’s on the sixth floor. You can work with that. That’s a good thing.
“I’m going to try to get the doors open and see if I can get you out of there, if that’s okay with you?”
“Oh, well, actually, I was hoping to stay in here for a while. But if you must…”
If I weren’t so over fucking blackouts in the city this summer, I might have laughed. I guess that was a pretty dumb question. Instead, I give her a simple but hopefully comforting instruction. “Hang tight.”