i live on the third floor of my apartment building, and while in most situations i avoid lazy bum-ness and use the stairs, there are situations that require the elevator.  these situations usually involve grocery store gluttony and my handy-dandy white wire cart-on-wheels from the container store (quite possibly the best $40 i’ve ever spent).  this evening, as i was hauling an alarming number of phone books down to the dumpster in my cart,* i noticed that the elevator was not working.  in fact, it was in a state of constant whirring.  this only leads me to assume that the cables have somehow become detached from the elevator car and that, had i been inside the elevator car, i would have plummeted a short but unnerving three floors to my death.  or at least a sprained ankle.  or something.  i actually have no idea what happens to you in an elevator drop.

i’ve had a strange relationship with elevators ever since i saw that six feet under episode that opened with a man who died due to a stuck-elevator situation.  this episode adhered to the inside of my skull almost as tenaciously as saran wrap adheres to itself.  i will never again ride an elevator without the constant fear that somehow, some way, my legs will be severed from my torso.

the elevator here at westcreek river oaks has never been in peak mechanical condition.  i think its troubles began about a year and a half ago, when the movers who hefted my couch from the truck to my apartment ignored the “do not move your furniture using this elevator” sign.  it has been creaky and weird and slightly erratic ever since. 

and now, it has died.  a moment of silence, please.

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* i am aware that you can recycle your phone book, but surprisingly most parts of houston have no recycling programs whatsoever.  and the houston yellow pages are two ENORMOUS volumes because this city is just that damn big.  so in a fit of feng shui i decided to disregard the environment and a healthy planet for my offspring and yatta yatta yatta and just get rid of the damn phone books already.

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  1. I feel you on the elevator thing. When I was 14 I found myself in a shabby community theater production of “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” Miming the horrors of the Glass Elevator while squished next to my stinky fellow actors really did me in. I will doff my hat to your elevator and wish it a speedy resurrection.

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