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Chapter 8
I'm amazed at myself really. I've always been reserved, and everything I had been through in my life led me to be quiet, self-contained, and avoid sharing personal information. Yet somehow, this woman was drawing me out to talk about myself, my past, my family, my company, and my future plans. She had shared similar things with me too, and I enjoyed her stories and her quirky humour.
I am surprised when she shares her passion for puzzles. My Abuela had very little money, but she took me to the library every week so we could borrow board games like Risk and Cluedo. And once a month, she would take me to the park in Little Havana and I would watch, and occasionally play, Chess and Backgammon with the older men. In the Army and Rangers, we were taught more strategy and problem-solving. It even served me well in bounty hunting and planning security systems. I could see her doing something like private investigations. If she could draw me out to talk about myself, she could probably compile a dossier on anyone in a day! I could even see her working with me in planning security systems and hunting FTAs… maybe?
Her story about the boy who took her virginity infuriated me. Who writes about their conquest on bathroom walls, just before leaving town? That kind of dick-move is just designed to get the poor girl into trouble. Every boy in town is going to assume she is easy and start hassling her. No wonder she said her senior years at school were hell. If I ever meet this Morelli asshole, I would be tempted to teach him a lesson myself. But then she actually makes me laugh out loud when she tells me her revenge. She fucking ran him down in her car! That is hilarious.
Apart from my two years in college, I had lived away from New Jersey since I was fourteen. It is somehow easy to forget that the 'Jersey Girl' stereotype has a lot of truth in it. Bold, strong, sassy, knows her mind, speaks her mind, takes no shit. And Steph definitely fit the mould for that. I had always been attracted to strong women. There was just something about a woman who stands up, lifts her chin, and looks you in the eye, that stirs my blood. Strength is sexy. And no woman should ever take shit they don't deserve.
Talking through my current struggles with getting established in Newark helps to clarify my thoughts and solidify my conclusions that have been forming in my mind for weeks. This isn't going to work. At least, not like I thought it would. A new strategy is needed.
Steph shocks me when she offers to introduce me to her friends and family to help me get work. She doesn't even know my full name. But the Trenton idea is sounding more and more intriguing. Plus, if I operated in Trenton, I could bring Hector in. Now that's a real benefit to the idea. Still, I don't know much about Trenton, other than bare facts. I'd need to do a fair bit of research, before making any decisions. I tell her so and she shocks me even more with her next offer.
"I could help you with research?" Her tone was hesitant, but sincere. "I know lots of people; I could research crime statistics and addresses of bond agencies and security firms. I mean… I don't have much else to do without a job, and I would like to help you." Wow. Life in war zones tends to damage, if not destroy, your faith in people simply doing good things for others for no reason. War is not really a philanthropic environment. But somehow, I believe her motives. She is simply trying to help me, and it humbles me. Still, I can see this working. Not only does she have contacts and local knowledge, but we have also talked about her skills and passion for investigation. But I would have to pay her. No way would I let her do it for free, especially when she already admitted she was struggling financially. Eventually, I can see the realisation in her eyes that this is logical, and she agrees.
The conversation has been so distracting that we both suddenly realise how long we have been sitting in this elevator. Ninety minutes. It is a concern. And it reinforces my belief that nobody knows we're in here. I decide I must be honest with Steph. If Steph is expecting to be rescued soon, she will start to get anxious and worried when it doesn't happen. I can tell she is horrified at my conclusions.
Then, as if on cue, her stomach rumbles loudly. I tease her about it. But truly, I hope someone comes to fix this elevator today. We can go three days without water and three weeks without food, so it is not too much of an immediate concern. But we had both eaten breakfast, and at some point, we would both need to eliminate. That was going to be uncomfortable and unpleasant in this enclosed and stifling little box.
Suddenly, Steph starts rooting around in her handbag. "Hey! I just remembered. I've got food and water here." She pulls out a plastic bottle of water and something she passes off as food. Seriously, snack cakes and cereal? She lifts the bottle up and looks like she is about to down at least half of it. I decide to warn her of the consequences before she has to squat in the corner.
Her vibrant red cheeks are a little amusing, but I know when the time comes, it is going to be even more uncomfortable for us both. As a soldier, I have seen any number of people pissing and even shitting, both male and female. Life when deployed is not glamorous or convenient and gender boundaries fall to the background. But Steph is a civilian, and the discomfort here would be from her inevitable embarrassment about it, and then the inevitable odour and issues containing the liquid. There is literally nowhere to go but in a corner. I just hope we're rescued before either of us is forced to defecate. That is really going to be a problem. Already, I'm thinking it through. Maybe put my jacket down so we can use it to soak up liquid, and then use hers to cover it. Both jackets would be unsalvageable, but it is a small price to pay.
I accept the water bottle after she takes a couple of small sips and do the same. But the snack cake is not happening. I'd rather wait to eat real food than that crap. Besides, I have no doubt I'm a lot more used to going without food than I she is, so I'll let her keep her sugary snacks. I can't help teasing her about the food. But her quick wit comes through again and, again, I appreciate her humour.
She settles back down after eating. Both of us are clearly thinking now about escape. I wish I could see a way out of here. I am frustrated that there doesn't seem to be an escape hatch. I know some older types of elevators don't have them, but I'm annoyed we are in one like that. Even if it had been locked, I could have picked the lock.
And why are the doors so hard to open? If we could keep the doors open, we could try and open the outer doors, probably at the bottom. But the damn things are heavy as shit, and behaving like they are magnetised together. It just doesn't seem normal. I am so focussed on thinking about how to open the doors that I am almost startled when Steph speaks again, and clearly her thoughts have been going down a different path from mine.
"Do you think anyone will hear us if we start banging on the walls and shouting?" I am taken aback by the suggestion. Why hadn't I thought of making noise? There had to be people out there, it was the middle of a workday, and if somebody knows we are in here, it will surely speed up the rescue.
"I don't know, Steph," I reply thoughtfully, "I guess it would depend on how close they are to the elevator and how well sound travels through the shaft."
"I thought about trying to wedge the doors open somehow, and then banging on the outer doors. People must be going up and down the stairs. It is lunchtime, after all." I look at her with respect. She is completely right, and I have obviously been so focussed on engineering an escape myself that signalling for help has not occurred to me beyond the non-functional emergency button.
"I am not sure how we would wedge the doors open. It would be a bit risky for you to put your arm through the doors to bang and shout while I hold them open. Of course, I would hold on for as long as I could to protect your arm, but the doors are very heavy, and I would hate to see your arm or hand caught in them."
She nodded. "What about trying to wedge our jackets in the tracks? Or using my briefcase to hold them open? Or even both? Maybe they could just be like a backup to you holding the doors? So, if your hold slips, they might hold it open at least long enough for me to pull my arm in?"
Steph continued, "If you think that won't work, well… I think this wall we're leaning against is beside the staircase. Maybe if we bang on this wall, people might hear us in the stairs?" I have seriously underestimated this woman's problem-solving skills. She isn't kidding when she says she is good at strategy. I'm not sure about using our jackets, given my earlier thoughts about how else they may become necessary, but so long as they don't fall out of the elevator car, it will probably be ok.
I decide it is worth investigating at least. I suggest, "I'll take off my shoes, and we can use the heels to bang on the wall. It will save our hands and fists from getting bruised if we have to keep it up any length of time. Let's just try the wall for at least ten minutes. If it doesn't seem to be working, we'll try opening the doors to investigate if we can wedge them somehow." At least it is a plan. Something to try and do, rather than just sitting here hoping someone is coming.
"We'll take turns shouting, Babe," I add. "We're going to get dry-mouthed and hoarse, and we still have the issues with how much water we have, and the lack of a bathroom."
Steph nods determinedly. I unlace my shoes and pull them off. I hand her one and we turn around on the floor and glance toward each other. "I'll start," I say. "I'll shout for about thirty seconds, then we'll stop and see if we get any response. Then repeat." She nods again and we both raise our shoes to the wall.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! I'm shouting, "Can anyone hear me? We're trapped in the elevator! Call 911! Can anyone hear me?" We continue for about thirty seconds then pause. Nothing. Silence. I nod to Steph, and we try again.
After about three minutes, I signal to Steph to take over shouting. She yells, "Help! We're stuck in the elevator! Please get us out of here! Call 911 and get help!"
We continue to alternate both of us again. I estimate we have been banging and shouting for at least twelve minutes, possibly more, but we haven't heard anything in response. We take a break and Steph looks dispirited. I hadn't really thought anyone would hear us through the elevator shaft, but I try to reassure her, "Don't worry, Steph. We'll keep trying. Let's just take a break and then we'll try to see if we can get the doors open. How about another sip of that water?"
Steph lifts the water bottle back out of her handbag and again takes a couple of small sips. She passes it to me, and I do the same. She still looks disappointed that her idea hadn't worked. I decide to try to comfort her. I reach out to put an arm around her shoulders for a small hug, and I soothe, "It was a good idea, Steph. Worth a try. I think the elevator shaft is just too solid. We might have more success with the doors."
As my arm goes around her shoulders, and I start to speak to her, she looks up at me. Her eyes are vivid blue, wide and vulnerable. And her skin is warm and soft through the thin cotton of her shirt. At that moment, I am intensely aware of her femininity, beauty, and above all, proximity.
An electric current seems to race through my arm straight to my groin from the contact.
I try to ignore it as I think through the problem of wedging the doors open. The trouble is, I cannot see anything better than Steph's suggestions. I am just going to have to hold them open for as long as I can, and we use her briefcase as a backup. As she says, it should at least give her time to pull her arm back. The gap between the inner and outer doors is only about six inches, after all, so the risk is small. The problem is, if someone responds, the conversation could take time. I am not confident I can hold the doors open long enough to convey much information to anyone who answers. But I guess them knowing we are trapped in here is the main point. They can call for help and someone should come to get us out.
I roll my shoulders to loosen them and stand, reaching out to pull Steph up beside me. "OK, Babe. Let's try these doors. I'm going to hold them open for as long as I can while you bang on the outer doors at the bottom. My focus is going to be on holding the inner doors, so the shouting and banging is up to you. But you also need to stay aware of me. If I cannot hold the doors, they are going to close quickly, and you'll only have a second or two to pull back. We'll use your briefcase as a backup, but it won't buy us much, maybe a half-second longer or so. You might want to pull anything out of the case you want to keep, since it may fall outside if it gets squashed in the doors."
She nods and pulls over the briefcase and bends over to start pulling out a resume folder and other papers. Her nicely rounded butt is on display. Focus Manoso! I tun away to toward the doors. When she straightens up, I tell her, "Kneel in front of the doors and get ready to slip the briefcase into the gap as I pull it open. As soon as you do, reach through, and start pounding. Try not to lean too far forward, I don't want your head or shoulders through the gap, just your arm."
Steph complies and I take a couple of deep breaths to focus my thinking and get in my zone. I am determined to hold these doors. She is looking up at me as I move behind her to get in position. I give her a nod as I start to pull the doors apart, my mind wholly focussed on the task. I see her wedge the briefcase in as the doors are about ten inches apart and I stop pulling and try to hold them at the distance. Her arm comes through quickly, and I see she has grabbed one of my shoes again. I hope to hell she doesn't drop it in the gap, but I guess if it gets us rescued, it will be worth it.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! "We're stuck in here! Call 911! We're in the elevator, get help!"
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