Love In An Elevator

One December a few years ago I embarked on an insane business trip. I left Nashville in the morning for a noon event in Dallas and then that afternoon caught a plane for Philadelphia for an event the next morning. Needless to say, it was a LONG day. As we made our descent that evening, I could see the neighborhoods around the Philadelphia airport covered by a crisp white blanket of snow. Apparently car rental shuttles in the City Of Brotherly Love drive much slower once the sun sets, as my familiar post-flight runny nose was frozen solid long before I was taken to my car. By the time I arrived at my hotel it was nearly midnight. The night air was bitter as I parked my rental car in the parking structure behind the hotel and walked toward the entrance of the building through the conference center, clutching my duffle bag close in an effort to keep warm. Upon entering, I immediately recognized the need for a facelift for the facilities. The dark wood complemented the rust orange carpets and beveled glass light fixtures hanging from the tall cottage cheese textured ceilings. And then I noticed the people, all sporting their finest formal attire. The women were wearing big fluffy gowns and dresses, a sea of satin and tortuously high-heeled shoes. The men were all wearing tuxes. Upon further study I also noticed the general glazed over look of a group of highly intoxicated people. In fact, some of the drunken partygoers were actually walking along the walls in a last-ditch effort to stay on their sauced feet. They were talking too loud. Laughing too hard. Carrying on disjointed drunken party conversation with their mouths full of green olives, petit fours and mini chocolate mousse cups. And then I looked at the foam core signs leaning on easels and the vinyl banner stretched across the lobby of the place.

WELCOME TO THE NORTHEAST HEMATOLOGY CONVENTION

I literally stopped dead in my tracks. Hematology? These people are hematologists? You’ve got to be joking. Okay, where are the cameras? Somebody must REALLY want to pull one over on me to go to such lengths as this. When I determined I was not being had by a hidden-camera show, I figured this group of bow-tied whiskey-head men and fluffy, shiny, satin-laden whiskey-head women must have been conducting some sort of medical experiment regarding blood alcohol levels and appropriate public behavior. That’s when it hit me. I was sure, without a doubt, that my room was waiting for me smack dab in the middle of the block of hematologists’ rooms whose inhibitions had been drowned hours ago. I scanned the room, resigned to the fact I wouldn’t be getting any sleep. There are a lot of blood doctors here who are going to get lucky tonight. My only hope is that they’ll all be too drunk to focus on the task at hand and they’ll pass out on their hotel room floors, landing on a mound of cummerbunds, polyester tux pants and strapless bras.

I made my way through the swath of glassy eyes to the front desk. Upon receiving my hotel key from the desk clerk, I turned and pushed the slightly cracked button to call the elevator to take me to the 16th floor. The doors opened, revealing a small and dim, musty elevator car with room for six people (if they all knew each other), with walls plastered with advertisements for local chain restaurants and the bar in the lobby. Just as the doors were sliding shut, a hand reached through the shrinking doorway, and a vertically mismatched 30-something couple stumbled in. He was slender, about 5’4” with his tuxedo shirt halfway unbuttoned and his tie dangling from one side of his collar. She was an ample 5’11” wearing a very red, very low cut yet very short cocktail dress. As the doors slid shut once again, the mating ritual of the inebriated hematologist species began.

Leaning against the smudged mirrored wall, no doubt crumpling the diner and bar flyers behind her, the woman threw back her head with a laugh. The man responded by burying his face in her cleavage, not unlike a child in a vampire costume at a Halloween party plunging his head into a basin of water while bobbing for apples. Then he began to make what I can only describe as “yummy” sounds while his head was still buried somewhere deep between her breasts. And all the while the woman was giggling, head back, uttering weak protests that were clearly meant to spur on her little lover. He responded enthusiastically. Literally close enough to reach out and thwack the balding spot on the back of his head, I chose instead to clutch desperately to my duffle bag and overcoat, praying to wake up but knowing I wasn’t asleep, reciting the following mantra under my breath, “Come on floor sixteen. Floor sixteen…floor sixteen… ” My eyes gazed upward at the illuminated numbers indicating which floor we were on. 5…6…7…

Somewhere between floors eight and nine, the man’s hands made their way up the back of the woman’s skirt, yummy sounds and giggles not skipping a beat. That’s it, I thought to myself. They are going to do it in the elevator, right here, right now, right in front of me. I may bear witness to the conception of another human life. Maybe I’ll be the godfather. And I’d bet money their room is right next to mine. Perfect. AND WHY IS THIS ELEVATOR SO SLOW??? Beginning to lose my cool, I closed my eyes and began to rock back and forth, my coat and bag the only barrier between the impending deed and me. And then my prayers were answered. St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes (I figured it applied at the time), heard my cries and delivered me to the 16th floor. As the pearly gates opened I leapt from the car, never turning back. And to my immense relief, Tiny Tim and his Amazon Queen remained occupied on the elevator, slowly disappearing behind the sliding doors, their voices growing more and more faint as they were carried up to their floor. I enjoyed restful, uninterrupted sleep that night. No noisy neighbors, no headboards sending Morse code messages to me through the wall. Just silence and solitude…

The next morning I got ready and made my way back down the hallway toward the elevator, the scene of last night’s love fest. I pushed the cracked button to call the elevator to take me to the lobby so I could check out and have some breakfast before the day’s activities. The doors opened, revealing the same small, dim, musty elevator car with room for six people (or two exhibitionists and one witness), with walls plastered with advertisements for local chain restaurants and the bar in the lobby, all crumpled and creased. Just as the doors were sliding shut, I could hear Steven Tyler’s voice in my head, singing that well known Aerosmith song that last night doubled as the soundtrack for an elevator containing a randy, vertically-challenged 30-something couple and a weary traveler huddled in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, wanting nothing more than a good night’s sleep…