What follows is a revised edition of a short story that I originally wrote almost fifty years ago. Yes, I am enough of a nerd that I saved my papers from college (and even some from high school). I have never viewed myself as a fiction writer, and after reading this story, my readers may agree with that assessment.
Since markets for short fiction are quite limited today, I decided to just cast this attempt out into cyberspace and see if I get any nibbles. Let me know what you think.
The Final Analysis
by John Groesser
A driving wind sent traces of snow skittering across the deserted sidewalk as I made my way back to my hotel. The halogen streetlights turned the swirls of snow into an orange haze that quickly disappeared into the night sky. Headlights formed pairs of yellow eyes as a few cars ventured catlike by me on the street. The thought that I had only one more day of this before I could return to the comfort of my North Carolina home gave me enough resolve to push on.
A blast of warm air engulfed me as I opened the front door of the Ridgemont, a hotel that had long since given up any hope of being a five-star on anybody’s review, but it had vacancies unlike all the other hotels that I tried in Philadelphia. The Eagles had finally made it to the division championship game with the Vikings, so rooms were scarce. As I stomped the snow off my feet, a bored desk clerk sitting barely visible above the check-in counter gave me an uninterested glance and then returned to scrolling on her cellphone. The only other person in the lobby had his back to me as I walked over to the elevator. The closely cropped, curly white hair that covered his head reminded me of the snow-topped bollards in front of the hotel. I recognized him as the maintenance man who had helped me yesterday by convincing a mini-fridge door to stay shut in my room. His coveralls had the stains and tears of a man who had spent too many days crawling around tight spaces fixing plugged sinks and malfunctioning AC units.
The elevator sat open as it had each evening that I had returned to my room. Apparently, the handful of other guests were either early risers or late-night partiers. Before stepping into the awaiting compartment, I noticed that the ancient newspaper rack still held a copy of the local newspaper. I dug around in my suit pants’ pocket until I located three quarters that I dutifully deposited in the box at the top of the rack. It amazed me that there were still newspaper distributers who trusted readers enough to have open racks like this. I smiled to myself as I saw the small padlock on the back of the coin box. Trust has its limits.
Tucking the newspaper under my arm, I stepped into the small elevator and reached for the eighth-floor button. Just as the doors began to close, a black hand grabbed the righthand door.
“Hold up a second there, boss,” the maintenance man said. “Push 10 for me. Somebody’s got a plugged toilet.”
“Sounds like fun,” I replied lamely, not knowing how to respond to a man headed to a gagfest.
“All part of the job,” he chuckled as he wiped his hands on a once-red rag. Something about him seemed distinguished despite his grimy clothes and faint chemical scent. “Been un-plugging toilets for some twenty years now.”
As the elevator reluctantly began to lift us up, I realized what it was that gave me my earlier impression. Despite years of hard work and low wages, he stood tall and looked me directly in the eye when he spoke without a trace of deference even though our clothing, skin color, and social class were as contrasting as his face and hair. In fact, his dignity came from his comfort with who he was. Unlike me, who had to dress as others in the banking world expected, he had only to slip on the same, familiar coveralls each workday and do what he knew how to do better than most. Some words of Ishmael in Moby Dick had made an impression on me in high school, and they came to mind then: “…as though a white man were anything more dignified than a whitewashed negro.”
The elevator doors groaned shut and my knees flexed slightly as we began to ascend. I aimlessly shifted my feet sensing the awkward silence so common to two-person elevator rides. A loud ding broke the silence as the fifth-floor panel button lit and the doors creaked open revealing a small man with a large suitcase. A large suitcase sat beside him, and he wore a black parka that seemed to be in the final stages of swallowing him. As he hoisted the suitcase and entered the cubicle, I was struck by how mouselike he appeared with his swept back gray hair and tiny, close-set eyes.
“Lobby, please,” he muttered as he headed for a corner of our now-crowded box. It seemed odd that he appeared to be checking out given the hour and the storm, but after two nights on a too-soft bed in a overheated room, I could relate.
“We’re going up,” Maintenance Man announced. Being a hotel employee, I guess he felt obligated to captain the ship as we continued our creaky journey upward.
Mouse Man only stared at the floored and muttered, “I know, but I didn’t have time to wait for it to return.”
We had barely resumed our journey before the bell dinged for the seventh floor and the doors once again rolled open. This time the hallway was empty, but just as Maintenance Man reached for the door closing button, a blonde giant appeared in the doorway wearing an Eagles jersey. He almost had to duck to step in and his body now filled the remaining space in our ever-shrinking cage.
“Lobby!” he boomed and Maintenance Man immediately pressed the L button even though he had done just that a few moments before. The doors closed and our adventure continued with less than two feet separating any of us. Mouse Man now seemed even smaller as he pressed his back into the corner trying to make more room – or to escape.
The elevator had just begun to hoist its burgeoning load when it stopped with a jerk. The floor number lights above the doors were no longer counting up. In fact, they were no longer lit. The only light was coming from the fluorescent fixture in the ceiling. Maintenance Man repeatedly pushed various buttons on the darkened panel with no success. The box seemed even more silent now as we all stared at the light panel somehow expecting it to give us vital information.
“Push the alarm button to notify maintenance,” ordered Thor.
“Won’t do no good,” responded Maintenance Man. “He’s already notified.” I exchanged a cough for a chuckle as I saw Thor’s reaction to this alarming news.
“Well, we can’t stay in here,” Thor observed as if one of us had suggested that. His authoritative manner seemed to be faltering as he looked around nervously.
“Maybe the desk clerk will hear it if we keep pushing it,” I offered.
“Not much chance,” Maintenance Man countered. “She keeps her ear buds in most nights so that she can listen to her music while she goes to sleep. Not much happens at night in this place…usually,” he added with an apologetic glance at me.
Thor turned toward me, and I thought he was either going to ask me something or strike me dead. The look in his eyes seemed to favor the latter, but I could also see tiny beads of sweat beginning to blossom on his forehead.
“I’m claustrophobic! I can’t just wait in here ‘til someone notices us.” His tone seemed more feeble than fearsome now. “Can’t we do something?”
Mouse Man, Thor and I all fixed our gazes on Maintenance Man. His brown eyes darted back and forth as if he were searching for something inside his head.
“Well, there is an override button in the maintenance room downstairs that could reset the elevator controls.”
“Could?” I asked.
“It has a couple times before,” he lied as he avoided my gaze. “If someone can boost me up to the service panel in the ceiling, I think that I could use the shaft ladder to get up to the next floor. If I can pry open the doors up there, I could get downstairs to give it a try.”
We all looked up at the ceiling of our cage, eyeing our salvation. The opening looked more suited to Mouse Man than Maintenance Man, but it seemed likely that he would either not know how to find the button or not bother to look and simply continue on his mission to flee this trap minus his suitcase.
Thor grabbed Maintenance Man’s arm and positioned him below the escape door. “Here, put your foot in my hands,” he commanded as he stooped over with his hands intertwined. His voice still quavered, but seemed to regain some of its volume as he imagined a means of escape.
Mouse Man and I put our hands on Thor’s shoulders as if we were somehow adding strength to his effort to lift Maintenance Man up to the opening. After a series of grunts (and a couple farts), Maintenance Man’s feet disappeared into the darkness of the elevator shaft.
Thor sagged from his squatted position and sat down in the corner opposite Mouse Man. He was now sweating profusely and pulling at the collar of his jersey. His head tipped down into his hands as he began a slight rocking motion. I stood there watching, feeling helpless.
Mouse Man sidled up next to me. “My name is David … David Young.” His voice was deeper than I had expected. I started to introduce myself, but he interrupted me. “I’ve read that talking to a claustrophobic helps them cope.”
I lowered my voice to keep Thor from hearing it above his groans of anguish. “It’s going to be a while before we get out of here. What do I say to him?” It seemed obvious to me that I would have to be the conversationalist since Mouse Man had barely spoken prior to his introduction.
“I’ve got this,” he said, patting my arm. He moved over to Thor’s corner and sat down facing him. He looked like a small boy talking to a lion. “What’s your name?”
Thor lifted his head and pushed back his shock of blonde hair to face his interviewer. “Eric Johnson.”
Figures, I said to myself, or at least I hoped it was to myself.
“Eric, my name is David. You here for the big game tomorrow?”
Eric sat more upright. “Yah. My brother plays for the Eagles. He got me tickets.” He wiped some sweat from his face as he sat back with his head resting on the elevator wall. “Should be a great game.”
David continued making conversation about football, the weather, and any other topic that seemed to interest Eric. As he did, Eric stayed focused on David’s face, avoiding looking at me or any other part of his cage. There they sat, mouse and lion, engaged in a lopsided struggle. I watched with a mixture of amazement and admiration as this mouse of a man quieted the raging spirit of a lion. After about 30 minutes, the elevator came to life with a jerk. We all turned our attention to the floor lights above the door as they counted down our descent. 7…6…5…4…3…2…Lobby.
When the doors opened, Eric jumped quickly to his feet and stumbled his way to a tattered upholstered chair in the lobby. Maintenance Man came out triumphantly from the equipment room next to the elevator, letting the door slam behind him.
“Everybody doin’ okay?” he asked as he wiped his hands on the dirty rag that he still carried in a side pocket.
“We survived,” I replied. “Thanks for getting us out of there so quickly,” I said as I shook his hand. “By the way, I never asked your name. I’m Steve.”
“My momma named me Reginald because she thought it sounded dignified, but I go by Reggie.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Reggie. This is Eric and David,” I said as I pointed to the two men who continued their conversation quietly. Both looked up briefly, but then resumed talking.
I turned back to Reggie. “Safe to resume my flight?” I asked pointing to the open elevator door.
Reggie chuckled and turned with me to re-enter the elevator. “Guess, we’ll find out.” He then reached in to grasp David’s suitcase and drag it over to the chair where David and Eric remained in conversation. David nodded his appreciation, said his goodbyes to Eric, and quickly headed for the lobby door to the outside. With a whoosh of wind and snow, he disappeared into the darkness.
I took one last look at Eric before I entered the elevator along with Reggie. As the doors closed, I could see Eric make his way over to the check-in counter to complete whatever mission had sent him on his fateful voyage down.
As Reggie and I resumed our trip upstairs, I pulled the newspaper out of my topcoat pocket and surveyed the front page. An above-the-fold headline on the righthand side read, “Philly Psychologist Discovered to be a Phony.” Some editor loved alliteration I thought to myself. I skimmed the article as Reggie surveyed the missing escape panel in the ceiling, probably trying to figure out how he would be able to replace it. The article revealed that the culprit had been posing as a psychologist for the past few months in a local hospital until someone discovered that his credentials had been forged. Police officials believed that he had operated with an assumed name: Dr. David Young.
Figures, I thought to myself as I carefully tore out the article and offered the rest of the newspaper to my new acquaintance. He seemed a bit puzzled, but accepted it without comment. When the doors opened to the eighth floor, I stepped out of the elevator and turned back just before the doors closed.
“Good job tonight, Reginald,” I said and then, as he continued on his way, I threw the wadded-up article in my hand into a nearby trash can. It seemed to me that there was enough irony in this world.