I'm an elevator repairman. This is why you don't get off until the door is open all the way. - Chap 7
- I'm an elevator repairman. This is why you don't get off until the door is open all the way.
- Chap 7 - Here is Rule #7 - Don't ram the doors with your mobility scooter
Reading through these now I’m realizing everything is all “don’t do this” and “never do that.” Well, sorry. I guess I’ll try to turn this one on it’s head.
Rule #7 – Ram the elevator doors with your mobility scooter only if you are looking for a painful and terrifying way to commit suicide.
You know what? That’s too wordy.
Okay, here goes. For real, this time.
Rule #7 – Don’t ram the doors with your mobility scooter you stupid, stupid idiot.
Again, another rule that should go without saying. The operative word being should. But people are intent on doing ridiculous and dangerous things. They think behind those doors lies the elevator, futilely waiting for them. There’s nothing else behind the doors except the inside of that box. That’s all there ever was and all that will ever be back there.
If you’ve read these rules, especially number 3, you already know that’s not the case. Those doors are closed for a reason. So that you don’t die falling down a dark pit of despair that may or may not lead directly to Hades.
But alas, some people like to find these things out the hard way. I was out at a call when I met one such individual. He pulled up next to me at the elevator doors in his Rascal. I gave him a polite little nod, which he ignored.
I was waiting patiently for the box to come up so that I could leave to go to the next call. The elevator doors hadn’t been working properly but I had just fixed them so they opened and closed smoothly again.
The guy looked to be in a hurry. He was tapping his foot and looking at the time on his cellphone and muttering, “Come on you piece of shit,” to nobody in particular.
That was when he decided to take matters into his own hands.
He backed up and took a run at the door with the scooter. He crashed into it loudly and dented the door slightly. I was so shocked I couldn’t even speak at first. I had heard of such things happening, had even seen security camera footage of it. But I never thought I would witness such crass idiocy in person.
Backing up again, he got ready to drive into the door once more.
“Stop! You’re going to kill yourself,” I yelled at him.
He gave me a look full of contempt and his face went red with anger, then a bruised purple shade. I realized then that this guy had more than a few issues.
“I’ve lived here for THIRTEEN FUCKIN’ YEARS, and you move in today and think you know better than ME!? Fuck you! This elevator,” he burped loudly, “is a piece of shit, you’ll see. You gotta give ‘em a good shot every once in a while or they’ll walk all over you!”
I had no clue what he was talking about but wasn’t about to let him break my legs by getting in his way.
He hit the accelerator again and went full-force into the door. This time it did more than dent it. It crumpled slightly from the impact and reluctantly rattled open, revealing the dark shadows of an empty elevator shaft.
The man screamed when he saw what was happening and then his scooter tipped forward over the precipice and into the darkness.
He turned around as he was going over and reached for me to save him. I instinctively grabbed his arm, then quickly realized he was far too obese for me to lift. The bastard was probably 400 lbs. I hadn’t been to the gym in a while (covid), but even if I had I didn’t think my time watching Netflix while lazily jogging on the elliptical would have made much difference in the situation. I’ve used a few of the other machines infrequently but weights are just so heavy.
The scooter fell away beneath him and I was suddenly struggling to support his girthy body as he struggled and kicked, his sweaty form slipping further and further through the door and down into darkness.
It only took a second before I realized I wouldn’t be able to save him. My feet slipped and skidded across the dank old carpet and I tried to let go of him to save myself. He sensed this and his eyes widened with terrified anger.
“Don’t you fucking drop me you sonofabitch, I’ll kill you if you fucking drop me don’t you dare.”
His blackened fingernails dug into my arm, tearing the skin and leaving bloody red marks. Gonna have to take a bath in antiseptic gel in the work van after this one, I thought to myself.
I made the mistake of looking into his eyes and saw he was panicked and desperate beyond anything I had seen before. His grip on my arm tightened and then I suddenly felt myself sliding inch by inch towards the doorway. Oh shit, that’s not good.
I began to panic right along with him, then. Screaming, I beat at his hand gripping my forearm. The motherfucker was going to drag me down with him.
My screams turned to shrill cries of terrified anger as the darkness of the elevator shaft filled my vision. I made the mistake of looking in the man’s eyes and saw he looked possessed by something now. He smiled at me with eyes black and soulless. But then again maybe that was just my imagination. I really haven’t been sleeping very much.
That was when the elevator came up.
Thankfully my arm was still inside the doorway. The car was like a freight train blowing through. It annihilated him with one swift and crushing movement. Then it rattled to a stop and the doors opened, revealing a couple boy scouts with their troop leader. From what I know of the neighborhood I guessed he was either taking them door to door selling candy bars for fundraising purposes, or more likely, he was bringing them up to his apartment to murder them and make their skins into a sweet drum set. It was definitely one or the other, but I’m not sure which.
They of course began to scream when they saw the severed hand still clutching my wrist with whitened knuckles. Shooting blood from a severed artery that bathed them both in a crimson shower.
I shook my wrist free of its grip with a concerted effort and forced a smile when I finally managed to knock the thing loose by whacking it against the elevator doorframe.
“Hey kids, you ever meet a handyman?” I asked, shaking the decapitated forearm like a maraca, trying to lighten the mood.
They laughed with innocent and uncertain laughter at this (it’s almost Halloween, after all) and reluctantly went off with the now impatient-looking troop leader who dragged them away towards his apartment. I heard the sound of reggae music blasting from that direction a moment later and hoped that meant they would be okay. It was hard to imagine someone murdering children to the tune of “Don’t worry, be happy,” but then again, you never can tell with these things.
I crammed the severed arm down the gap between the elevator and the hallway, mashing it down forcefully with a few good stomps from my steel-toed boot.
That was when I heard the man up on the roof of the elevator. He was making a wet gurgling sound that reminded me of a wet vac. Which reminded me – I really needed to replace my shop vacuum.
I rode down to the ground floor and eventually he must have expired because by the time I got down there I couldn’t hear him anymore.
I should probably tell the superintendent there’s a dead body on top of his elevator. But man, I am getting really fucking sick of filling out police reports.
Does anybody have a good lead on a cheap apartment in a different city? I need to get out of this godforsaken town. I’d prefer something on the ground floor if possible.