Last summer, I was snuggling up to the air-conditioner and flipping through an issue of Vogue when my mom handed me a bag full of empty milk cartons and tissue boxes. She told me to hurry to the basement recycling room because she wanted us to go out for Japanese food soon. I grabbed my keys and the bag and headed down.
My basement is a maze lit by two dim light bulbs, so I constantly feel as though some Albert Fish-like murderer is going to pop out and eat me. To alleviate the basement’s creepiness, my superintendent always keeps the radio blaring. I’ve been living in the same building since 2008, and the cheesy pop songs have become a protective facet of my basement adventures. In fact, I was a 7th grader when the radio broke down; I refused to take out the recycling until our superintendent fixed it.
As I sorted plastics, papers, cans, and glass that afternoon, Get Lucky by Daft Punk played for what felt like the millionth time ("We’ve come too far to give up who we are.") Afterwards, I boarded the elevator. I usually take the stairs, but I was feeling lethargic. The doors closed, and the elevator moved upwards.
Suddenly, I wasn’t moving anymore. I peeked through the slit between the doors and realized that I was stuck on the second floor. Next to the buttons was an intercom with “City Elevator Help-Line” written on it. I flicked the intercom’s trigger, and a ringing came out. “Hello, this is City Elevator. How may I assist you today?” a cheery man asked.
“I’m stuck!” I yelped. My pre-war building’s elevator was meant to hold two people, three if folks squish together. I was beginning to feel claustrophobic.
“Well, alrighty then. Are you calling from 44 East 63rd Street? Also, are you in any pain or discomfort?”
I sat down on the floor and wiped globs of sweat from my forehead. “Yes, that is the address, and yes, I am feeling very uncomfortable.”
“Well, alrighty then. Our closest worker is on East 84th street; he’ll be with you as soon as possible. Would you like me to stay on the line until he comes?”
“No, thanks.” Instinct told me that I’d be better off without company.
“Well, alrighty then. If you begin to feel shortness of breath or any other alarming symptoms, please feel free to call again.”
For the next hour, I had nothing to do but think. What would happen if the worker never came? I’d eat dust for every meal and spend my days counting scratches on the walls. I thought back to the radio and the security it provided in the basement, yet here I was forced to sit alone in a dark and silent elevator. The isolation was not only tolerable, but also peaceful. For the first time, I realized what being alone really meant: no Daft Punk, no computer, no SAT book, no cellphone. I had always needed the comfort of knowing that someone was around me, but in the elevator all that I had was my brain and sweaty body.
“Amy, we’re going to let you out now!” said my mom from the other side of the doors.
After an hour, the spell was broken. The doors opened, but I didn’t move.
A glum-looking City Elevator man and my laughing mom stared at me. “Don’t you want to get up?” they asked.
I contemplated staying there for another hour before clumsily rising, still in a daze.
“Why were you just sitting there?” asked my mom, as she dusted grime off my dress.
Befuddled, I could only say, “I don’t know. I just felt so comfortable.”