The Elevator

It’s the only elevator on campus and it won’t come. I’m up on the eighth floor of Pierce Hall, the high rise dorm – I’m estimating that it’s somewhere in the four a.m. area – the evening’s proceedings have distorted my sense of time to the point that I can’t really tell how long I’ve been here, tottering, every so often lurching forward to punch the already lit button, an act that doesn’t seem to make the elevator arrive any faster or, indeed, arrive at all.

It’s at this point that Tekla almost runs into me, coming down the hall in her robe, clutching a hot pot, as half asleep as I’m half awake.

Oh, hi Charlie. We both stand there for a second, taking each other in. So, she says finally, Up early or out late?

She lifts the pot. I thought I might have some tea.

I say, and, not being able to think of anything else, stab the button again.

I’m not sure if that’s going to do any good. On the weekends those guys on the fifth floor like to find new ways of getting it stuck.

I peer at the stairwell entrance doubtfully. Hmmm. I’m not too sure I’m up for all those steps. I don’t say it, but I can’t go back to where I came from either, the party in Megan’s room being decisively over – she’s made her choice for the evening and it’s not me.

I say, and we both laugh.

While she’s in the bathroom there’s a startling ding and the elevator doors slide open. I gaze abstractly at the grey graffitied interior until they close again – it’s been an interesting enough evening already and I’m not at all inclined to let it end now.