The Doorman of Elevator Fifty-Two

The doorman of elevator fifty-two was a slim man in a blue uniform. Slim to the point of becoming invisible, as fine as a needle, when turned to the side – a self-inflicted evolution to help him slip between closing elevator doors, and as a result of various failures causing him to be crushed by them. Bang, bang, bang; flattened between the iron doors like a grape in a vice. It was just as well that elevator fifty-two was mostly an interior event, for the poor doorman would be blown away by the slightest breeze if he were to flutter outside. As it was the thrumming of the air conditioning system rippled the newspaper that was his stomach. And God forbid that the doorman of elevator fifty-two should sneeze!

 

The doorman of elevator fifty-two was a man subject to dramatic emotional shifts. One moment he would be on a high, the next a low, then on top of the world (the building), and finally in dejection (of the mouldy, grotty basement.) He had wanted to be a rollercoaster operator, but the job had lost its appeal when the doorman of elevator fifty-two had realised that rollercoaster operators did not pilot the ride from within. Elevator fifty-two had to be his adrenaline fix. Until it wasn’t…

 

In his first week, the doorman of elevator fifty-two had discovered the elevator’s manual speed override. He had activated it; had used to zip passengers to the top and free fall to the bottom. Guts roiled, organs displaced, and adrenaline fizzing on his tongue. Nevertheless, after a complaint by Mr. Sheldon Lowly, the company’s biggest customer (quite literally – a bulbous jelly of a man) and a connoisseur of the colour grey, whose toupee had flown off during a rapid ride in the elevator, the manager had reprimanded the doorman of elevator fifty-two and had reinstated the slow, practical elevator speed. The doorman of elevator fifty-two deteriorated as he now crawled inch by inch. A wild man tamed.

 

Tamed so that his only entertainment was watching the various people flock through the doors of elevator fifty-two each day. Suits, jumpers, cardigans, vests, jackets, gilets, wellington boots. Top hats, Stetsons, bowlers, bald, scarves and saris, kippa and hoods. Brogues, trainers, boots, and socks.

 

The doorman of elevator fifty-two would find amusement in these outfits; he would conjure stories about the people. There was the crazy cat lady of floor seventeen – so deduced from the cat hairs malted onto her jacket, so much that her jacket could actually have been made of cat. The crazy cat lady who was a secret inspector seeking to shut the company down by exposing the lude emails between the boss and secretaries. For this crazy cat lady had once been an employee. She too had been entwined in a relationship with the boss, but she had been dismissed for a younger model. She sought revenge. No prosthetics or disguise needed, for depression had been enough to change her. And nobody else knew her motivations other than the doorman of elevator fifty-two. The man who paid attention.

 

There was the chairman of floor forty, who rattled along like a corpse; his spine bent, and bones gnarled from years of sitting at a desk – a tortoise whose shell was an invisible chair that weighed down his Quasimodo gait. He came every Friday at two to attend a meeting he could surely miss. In fact, all the members of the meeting would rather he not attend. They’d rather that the tortoise curled up and died, then they could make decisions without his stolid input. The doorman of elevator fifty-two knew this because the younger cabinet members gossiped and complained during their rides – they forgot that the doorman existed. The doorman liked it that way.

 

Then there were the office interns whose crumpled shirts were soaked with perspiration, and who packed into elevator fifty-two, their shoulders the width of football fields. The doorman would hold his breath between floors and gasp when the door opened to bring a fresh release of pine corridor. And he would be trampled as the bulls exited. They weren’t so entertaining.

 

But then one day, when the elevator doors opened to floor fourteen, the doorman fell in love.

 

Across the hall: elevator fifty-one. Just as elevator fifty-two’s doors begun to close, elevator fifty-one’s opened. The doorman saw him then. Across the grey hall, past the grey people, and stood bathed in the yellow light – a halo: the doorman of elevator fifty-one. A most handsome doorman. But he was gone in an instant.

 

For the first time, going up felt like going down.

 

The rest of that day went in a blur. The doorman of elevator fifty-two saw not the crazy cat lady of floor seventeen weeping, escorted from the building by two buffalo security guards; he heard not the whisperings of the young cabinet members who yearned (jokingly, "of course") for their CEO’s demise; he smelt not the malodorous perspiration of the office interns as they munched on yesterday’s gossip – the doorman of elevator fifty-two was blank, and no rollercoaster could awaken him.

 

For days he rode the elevators in dejection. Glazed eyed, he was haunted by the subliminal image of the doorman of elevator fifty-one across the grey hall, past the grey people, and stood bathed in the yellow elevator light – a halo. And the doorman of elevator fifty-one was grinning, his blue uniform pristine, and arms outstretched to embrace him. This was the exaggerated scene that existed as a result of over-playing, of clinging to the image like to a warm, threadbare blanket. The doorman of elevator fifty-two was now afraid that reality would not compare.

 

After weeks of travelling from floor to floor, hoping, praying to the escalator gods (for elevators don’t have them) to rediscover the doorman of elevator fifty-one, all to no avail, the doorman of elevator fifty-two summoned the courage to face his romantic problem head on. At the end of his shift, he waited on the ground floor for elevator fifty-one to arrive. He suspected that they finished at the same time. So, he waited.

 

And waited.

 

And waited.

 

When elevator fifty-one did finally arrive, a woman stepped out.

 

How could that be?

 

The doorman of elevator fifty-two brushed past the woman, slipped through the closing doors, and scanned the space – for someone, anyone. Arms slammed against the metal walls, and his face pressed against the mirror – could the doorman of elevator fifty-one be hiding behind there?

 

No!

 

The doorman of elevator fifty-two slumped against the wall and got a sinking feeling – the elevator went to rest at the basement. The mouldy, grotty basement. The stench crept beneath the door. The doorman of elevator fifty-two was numb to even this.

 

The next morning, before work, the doorman of elevator fifty-two, now with a five o’clock shadow, teabags beneath his strained eyes, and an unusually dishevelled uniform, marched to the reception desk and demanded to know who the woman in elevator fifty-one had been.

 

She works there.

 

Then who was that man?

 

What man?

 

The man who was there before.

 

Carlos? He fills in sometimes.

 

When?

 

Whenever.

 

Where is he?

 

Wherever.

 

The doorman of elevator fifty-two wilted.

 

He fills in when people are sick. If you’ll excuse me, there is a call.

 

But the doorman of elevator fifty-two was already tumbling away.

 

Oh, okay. You can’t come in...

 

The door of elevator fifty-two shut. The doorman rode it to the roof. He walked to the edge. Inhaled the cool air. A foot on the ledge. Inhaled the cool air. The other foot on the ledge. Toppled by the breeze… Looking down – the ultimate ride to the basement. The mouldy, grotty basement…

 

He returned to the elevator.

 

His shift had begun.

 

On floor eight, he picked up a couple who had stayed in the hotel. It was early, but they were atom, clawing in each-other’s arms, giggling – their own drugs. The doorman of elevator fifty-two stared longingly at them. But they didn’t notice. They got off on the ground floor. The image of their locked hands imposed upon that of the doorman of elevator fifty-one.

 

Had that image ever been real?

 

The doorman of elevator fifty-two then had his answer.

 

Floor twenty-four.

 

A gaggle of hissing secretaries (all of whom, unbeknown to each-other, were involved in the lude emails with the boss, which the crazy cat lady of floor seventeen had failed to expose), their pouts like savage beaks, and whose spittle had steamed the elevator mirror and had practically drowned the doorman, forced the door for floor twenty-four. The doorman of elevator fifty-two was grateful for the release. He wiped his unfeeling brow of saliva. As the limb came down, he saw, again, across the grey hall, past the grey people, and stood bathed in the yellow elevator light – a halo – the doorman of elevator fifty-one. Carlos. Sweet, honourable, though unknown, Carlos.

 

But the door was shutting.

 

The doorman of elevator fifty-two ignored his tumultuous heart and sprinted.

 

Past the hissing geese. Past the grey suits. And sliding through the closing door of elevator fifty-one (thanks to his paper-thin constitution.)

 

Panting, looking up from his knees, the doorman was faced by the puzzled stares of the passengers, and then the smiling (though equally puzzled) Carlos.

 

This was the moment for the doorman of elevator fifty-two.

 

What could he say? What could he do? He’d come so far and now his tongue was tied –

 

“Do you like rollercoasters?”