To my kids:
(I know I will not have to convince you that this is the way it really happened. The characters and their responses make it all too believable :-)
It was last Monday morning and started as normal as a Monday morning has to be. I was ready for work and out the door on time. I entered the elevator and pressed "G" - not far to go, only one floor - as you all know. This story really is going somewhere.
Then "Bang!" The elevator was now my hotbox for 45 minutes. I talked myself out of pressing all the floor numbers as I've so often seen done in movies. I pressed the "bell" button - several times. Then I hear a voice.
"Hello?" from the outside and the concierge guy tells me he can see me from the video camera in the elevator. Wasn't sure how that was going to help me get to work on time, but I'd go with it for now.
I had 2 bars left on my cell phone battery icon, which made me decide to forgo calling Gramma Brawn and instead called your dad upstairs. I relayed my predicament to him and that the concierge reassured me that they "could see me in the elevator." (It was then I told myself not to pick my nose or do other dumb stuff I would regret when I did get out again.)
Your dad responded with "Oh? . . . Ah, btw, what were you planning to do with this "shredded wheat" in the bowl here? Can I eat it?" I had prepared a bowl of cereal, but left before I got the chance to eat it.
"Ahm, sure. And btw, could you ask what they are really doing at the concierge?"
"I'm coming right down, and I'll bring a book."
Oh good, a book - what a relief.
"Debbie, Debbie," the concierge guy was back.
"Yes, I'm still here," I assure him.
"I can still see you in the elevator; I just want you to know that. And help is on the way. The elevator repairman is on his way."
"Okay, but where does this guy call home?"
"Is he coming from Brampton?" I'm suspecting he doesn't live around the corner, just like the condo's plummer is from Brampton. I'm thinking, "We don't even have a leak here, it's a lady caught in the elevator watching her watch for how much time she will have to make up before leaving work at the end of day ...," but then who cares at this point. It would be nice to just go to work today.
My cell rings.
"Hi Hon. I'm just over here in one of the large black chairs and I'll read some of this book to you."
"I've got to go to the bathroom."
"Ah-oh. So, I'll keep reading where we left off last night."
"You mean in the book called, "What Got You Here, Won't Get You There?"
"Yep, that's the one." And we continue. Who cares about irony at a time like this?
Several paragraphs later ...
"Maybe, I should just kick the door."
"Ahm, what about ..., oh he's here," your dad announces over the cell phone.
"No, another guy ..., who can open it."
The door opened a hole - a way out. I was stuck up about 6 ft. off the floor. Your dad pulled me through and I was standing in front of the mirrors.
Dad didn't think it was a good idea for me to resubmerge into another closed in situation, i.e. the subway, so he drove me to work.
BTW, the same concierge guy has breathed a sigh of relief every time he has seen me successfully leave the elevator this week.
Dad's response to the story:
"Ha! I like the connection, "What got you here won’t get you there". You forgot to add about your whimpering once you got out."