I was finally at peace with the dreadfully time-consuming and demeaning task of travelling through the bowels of the Eight Ball to Bullivant Houser. It helped that yesterday I delivered lunches to the actually front desk of "the Bull," and felt like I'd bested the system at 888 SW Fifth once, so after gaining clearance in the lobby, I strolled back to the loading dock through the "servant's entrance" and into the sweet odor of the giganto-dumpster adjacent to the freight elevator.
Lo and behold, the thing was there, waiting for me with open doors. Yes, this must be my lucky day. I pressed three and was on my--wait. I pressed the number three button, but the orange light would not stay on. I looked at the control panel on the other side to see if the light was burned out. Nope.
I stepped out and summoned help on the intercom. The voice that suddenly erupted from the speaker spat out a panicked muddle of words, one of which was "malfunction."
"They'll be forced to allow me to through the Bullivant lobby," I thought as I walked back to the lobby and the guard desk. But no, building personnel would be forced to do many things that afternoon, but letting set foot inside the Bullivant lobby would not be one of them.
An alarm buzzed away as people had began collecting in the lobby, staring at the elevator bay as all of the elevator doors stood agape and white-shirted security guards rushed in and out of a heretofore top secret room. It was as though the curtains had been pulled, exposing the Wizard of Oz, only to reveal Hal from 2001, silently, coldly sitting there, refusing to acknowledge its deeds while a bunch of scared kids in their police suits scurried like startled roaches as the alarms from the elevators and the eyes of the grown-ups in their suits turned the whole thing into a scatological nightmare.
One of the guards discreetly mentioned that the freight elevator was working again. Most of the suits standing in the lobby didn't even know that there was a freight elevator in their beloved building. So of I went, back to the dark and putrid bowels of the tower, where the rehabilitated freight elevator awaited. I didn't think that anyone had followed me, but after I tried pressing the call button several times I looked up to see a mob of businesspeople anxiously marching into the loading dock, led by a large-yet-cherubic security guard.
With any luck, the young man's competence would get us safely to our destination. I made sure that I was first to hop into the compartment, the mass of humanity flowing in around me. Yet the episode was yet another in which acting on assumptions cost me dearly. The car began to bounce (yes, bounce) up and down like it was some kind of ride at Disneyland (not a carnival ride, however, so panic did not ensue). The door opened and we all reluctantly got out so that the security man-child and the newly arrived building maintenance guy mentally and physically battled the mighty beast and its throes of seizure, unleashed by the building's revolting cenral nervous system.
We eventually set sail with about 15 people and went straight to Tonkon Torp, passing the third floor mail room and the single envelope that was apparently worth all of this trouble en route to the 16th floor. It was logical, but it sure as hell didn't jibe with my needs. But we were finally making some progress and the whole thing was still quite amusing, so I kept my mouth shut.
As I left the big car, the brave pilot stood alone in the temperamental metal box. Through the cacophony that was blaring out of his radio, he'd heard that the elevators were all now working again. Just the same, I took the stairs on the way down. They let out on Fourth Street, so I walked around the corner to retrieve my bike. As I walked by the loading dock, an older--perhaps semi-retired--security guard smoked a cigarette. The scatological goings-on of the afternoon were not enough to keep him from his break, or ellicit any concern whatsoever. I asked him if what I'd heard was true, that the elevators were, in fact, working again. He just shook his head, laughed and took another drag.
Postscript:
As luck would have it, my next job was a 1000 Broadway back to the Eight Ball. I pulled my stuff and took the advice of the old security guard back at 888, and kicked it at 1000 B'way for long enough to put a dent in the crossword. The "big plan" had me meeting up with D to switch out some packages. I pretended like I was doing him a favor, as I was able to pawn off one drop and two picks at the Eight Ball for two Northeasts. After what seemed like an eternity, he emerged from the purgatory at Fifth and Taylor. His voice quivered like that of a man whose soul was no longer complete as he muttered over the radio, "Please...don't send me back in there."
And we never saw D again.
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