“Residents,” he said, his voice dripping with a smug, condescending poison as he planted his boot in the elevator doorway, “wait.”
This was Julian, the self-appointed tyrant of our building’s only elevator.
For weeks, he’d held it hostage with a splintered broom handle, a monument to his own entitlement while the elderly waited and parents lugged strollers up flights of stairs. He was a petty bully in cargo shorts, counting on the fact that no one would dare make a scene.
He had just made a critical error, assuming my weapon of choice would be a shouting match instead of a quiet clipboard, the fine print in our condo bylaws, and the beautiful, unforgiving memory of a lobby security camera.
The First Tremor: The Broom in the Door
The first time I saw the broom, I thought it was a mistake. A forgotten tool left by the cleaning crew. It was wedged diagonally, its cheap yellow bristles splayed against one side of the elevator door, the splintered wooden handle propped against the other. The elevator car was held hostage, its doors gaping open into our lobby. A low hum emanated from the exposed machinery, a sound of perpetual waiting.
I shifted the weight of my grocery bags, the plastic handles digging into my palms. It was a Saturday. The one day I do the big shop for the week. My husband, Mark, was supposed to come, but a last-minute call from his office had chained him to his desk. So it was just me, a week’s worth of food, and eight floors between me and my refrigerator.
A man I’d never seen before stood with his back to me, half in the elevator, half out, directing a younger, skinnier version of himself. “No, Leo, pivot. Pivot! You’re gonna scratch the damn thing.”
The “thing” was a beat-up particleboard dresser that looked like it would disintegrate if you sneezed on it too hard. The man in charge was broad in a way that suggested a high school football career followed by two decades of beer and inactivity. He wore a faded college sweatshirt, cargo shorts despite the late autumn chill, and an air of profound, unearned authority.
I cleared my throat. “Excuse me,” I said, pitching my voice to be heard over the hum. “Do you know how long you’ll be?”
He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes doing a quick, dismissive scan. “Long as it takes.” He turned back to his work. “Leo, for God’s sake, lift with your legs. You want a hernia?”
I stepped closer. “It’s just that this is the only elevator.”
This time he turned fully, planting a hand on the door frame. He had the kind of face that was perpetually flushed, a testament to high blood pressure or a low boiling point. “Yeah. I know. I live here. Unit 3B. We’re moving my brother in. Unit 6B.” He gestured with his thumb at the sweating kid, Leo. “It’s a process.”
“There’s a sign,” I said, pointing to the silver plaque next to the call button. “It says moves should be scheduled with management, and the elevator can’t be held for more than fifteen minutes.”
He gave a short, barking laugh. “That’s for freight service. This is a ‘move assist.’ Different thing entirely.” He winked, as if letting me in on a clever loophole he’d personally invented. “We’ll be done when we’re done.”
He turned his back on me again, effectively ending the conversation. I looked past him, at the scuffed-up dresser, the single pathetic box sitting in the corner of the car. This wasn’t a move. This was a trickle. A slow, agonizing drip of furniture that was holding the entire building captive. And I was standing at the bottom of a very tall waterfall with a cart full of melting ice cream.
Eight Flights of Annoyance
There’s a unique kind of despair that sets in on the third flight of stairs when you’re carrying two weeks’ worth of groceries. The initial surge of righteous indignation fades, replaced by the dull, aching reality of gravity. The bag with the milk and orange juice started leaking condensation, leaving a cold, damp trail against my jeans. The one with the canned goods felt like a sack of bricks, and the box of Cheerios I’d balanced on top was threatening to tumble with every step.
By flight five, my breath was ragged. I had to stop, leaning against the cool concrete wall of the stairwell, the smell of dust and stale air filling my lungs. I could hear the faint echo of the man’s voice from the lobby—“PIVOT, LEO!”—and a fresh wave of irritation washed over me. This wasn’t just an inconvenience; it was an act of supreme selfishness. He lived on the third floor. He could take the stairs. His brother was moving to the sixth. Manageable. I lived on the eighth. My floor might as well have been the summit of Everest.
I thought of Mrs. Gable in 7A, who used a walker and relied on that elevator as her lifeline to the outside world. I thought of the Chens in 5C with their newborn and the mountain of gear that came with him. We all shared this space, this vertical hallway that made life in a high-rise possible. And this guy, this self-proclaimed lord of the lift, had decided his brother’s cheap dresser was more important than all of us.
When I finally fumbled with my keys at my own front door, my arms were trembling with fatigue. The plastic bags had left angry red welts on my skin. I shoved the door open and practically dropped the groceries on the floor of the entryway.
Mark looked up from his laptop at the kitchen island. “Hey, you made it. How was it?”
“The elevator is being held hostage by some guy in cargo shorts,” I panted, leaning against the door frame. “Had to take the stairs.”
Mark winced in sympathy. “Oh, that’s rough. Moving day, huh?”
“He said he was ‘assisting a move.’ And he propped the door open with a broom. A broom, Mark.”
“Well, it’s probably just for today,” he said, his eyes already drifting back to his screen. “Annoying, but what can you do?”
That was Mark’s philosophy for most of life’s minor injustices. A verbal shrug. An acceptance of the status quo. Usually, I agreed with him. But as I started unpacking the slightly-too-soft butter and the carton of milk that was now sweating profusely, a cold knot of resentment began to form in my stomach. What can you do? It felt less like a question and more like a surrender.
About the Author
