“Three,” a melodic voice announced. A soft chime indicated that the elevator door was now open, waiting for my less-than-dramatic entrance.

Mop and bucket in hand, I shuffled into the elevator. Nobody paid any attention to me as I pressed the button for the 77th floor, otherwise known as the Executive Suite. In the past it had been unnumbered, simply labeled “PH” for Penthouse. Shortly after the creation of a magazine with the same name, the letters had mysteriously disappeared, replaced with the generic “77”.

The conversation around me continued without a break. I pulled my baseball cap a little lower and fixed my gaze on the floor.

“…like, won’t believe what he said!” I located the speaker’s shoes. Three-inch high stilettos, heels and toes slightly scuffed. The right toe was tapping impatiently on the elevator floor.

“He, like, accused me of, like, shredding his check. Like that is what I do for fun. Like, I so wouldn’t do it ‘cause, like, that would just make him call me....”

“Five.”

Stiletto kept talking as she left the elevator. The remaining people expanded to fill the space. A pair of department-store loafers slid into Stiletto’s position.

“… something’s going on. I told my boss about the customer calls, about the increase in late and lost payment complaints. He just gave me some line about people who were too lazy to mail their payments on time. But then I heard him crowing about the big bonus check he’ll be getting. I think...”

Loafer’s words were abruptly cut-off as the doors opened on 8 and a pair of highly-polished dress shoes stepped in. Loafer shifted uncomfortably, like a schoolboy in the principal’s office.

“Smith,” Dress Shoes grunted. Loafer mumbled in response. An awkward silence descended as the elevator resumed its ascent.

“Fifteen.” The voice had never sounded sweeter as the doors opened and Loafer scurried off, followed by the arrogant steps of Dress Shoes.

The elevator continued, leaving behind the developing saga. As the occupants changed, I found myself slowly rotated to the back with the rest of the high-floor riders. Most people ignored the man with the mop, relegating me to the class of the Invisible People. The mop was my badge, an indicator of my non-status in their world. Unable to influence their careers or social lives, I was harmless.

“...told Sheila to shred…”

“…strange jump in late fee revenue…”

“…if Management knew…”

So the conversations swirled around me, secrets that would never make their way to the Board room.

“Fifty-five.”

Now we were getting to the Upper Floors, Management. A pair of the latest Prada pumps strode onto the elevator, accompanied by the luxurious leather of Bruno Magli oxfords.

“...has brought in his son, things are changing,” Prada complained. “Baxter always let his management deal with things.”

“As long as the stock price kept going up,” Bruno qualified.

“And we stayed out of the news. But that’s what the ‘discretionary’ expense account’s for, right?” Prada gave a harsh laugh.

“Not anymore.” Bruno said. “Junior seems to be aware of everything that’s going on in the building, including our convenient solutions. I don’t understand how he’s finding out all the dirt.”

“You were supposed to take care of that,” she snapped.

“I’ve tried. I checked with telecom to see if any of the phone lines had been accessed or tapped. Nothing. I had an outside security firm sweep the entire building for hidden microphones and cameras. Nothing.”

“Do you think it’s a management leak? Could he be bribing an employee?”

“Which manager? Baxter knows more about what’s going on in our departments than we do. And there’s no way he could find out all of the things he knows, even if he bribed 500 employees.”

“Did you check the elevators? The restrooms?” I could hear the panic rising in Prada’s voice.

“Everywhere. Even the cafeteria and stairwells. It’s almost like he’s psychic.”

“We need to find the answer. Soon. We’ll all be gone if Baxter finds the source of our sudden revenue growth.”

“Seventy-four.”

A worried Prada scurried out of the elevator. Head bowed, I pulled my hat lower and moved out of the corner, pushing the bucket with my foot.

“Watch it, you idiot!” Bruno jumped out of the way as a drop of water splashed onto the floor. “These shoes cost more than you make in a month – damage them, and I’ll have it deducted from your pay.”

“Seventy-five.”

An angry Bruno stormed through the doors. Nobody guards their character or their conversation around Invisibles.

“Seventy-seven.”

The elevator opened, revealing the luxury of the Executive Suite.

“Good morning, Mr. Baxter,” the receptionist greeted me.

I grabbed my mop and bucket. It was going to be a busy day.

Because of a meaningless breakdown of archaic machinery, two women, each identifiable primarily by their individual clichés, found themselves occupying the same confined space. One was a fading beauty in a red cocktail dress. Her features were still pretty, her figure slim, and her hair was radiant, but her eyes were tired and beaten. Her allure was losing the battle to age and drugs; under her caked makeup were wrinkles, under her sleeves were scars. She brushed a chestnut curl from her eyes and pulled a pack of Camels from her pocketbook. "Mind if I smoke?" she asked her accidental companion.

"Be my guest," replied the familiar blonde, who had resigned herself to sit patiently against the wall. The brunette eagerly lit a cigarette and inhaled gratefully before offering the pack to the younger girl. "No thanks, I don't smoke," was her response.

"Good for you," said the woman in the red dress. She flicked some ash onto the floor. "These things will kill you," she added thoughtfully. "Sorry that the elevator isn't better ventilated."

"It's no matter, really," said the blonde. "I'm used to it. My parents were smokers. They even smoked the same brand." She closed her eyes and breathed in deep, and for a moment, she was home.

"It really is a great likeness," said the woman in red.

"What?" asked the blonde, brought back to reality.

"You. Your costume. The whole thing. You really do look like Marilyn Monroe."

"Oh, of course. Thank you." She was right, of course. She was an exact imitation, from her white dress to her painted-on beauty mark.

"I mean I've seen a lot of look-alikes around here, but you- you're really something else." She took a long drag from her cigarette. "How old are you, anyway? Twenty-one?"

"Nineteen."

"Ah. The costume makes you look older. You're an actress, right?"

The girl nodded.

"I wanted to be an actress once, too. That's what brought me out to Vegas in the first place. Now ask me what I am. Go ahead, ask me!"

"What do you do now, ma'am?"

The woman in red cringed. "Don't call me ma'am, please."

"I'm sorry. What's your name?"

"It doesn't matter. Call me anything you want. Just don't call me ma'am." She took a drag again. "And I'm a prostitute."

"Oh--" started the girl.

"Don't be embarrassed. And don't you dare say you're sorry. It's my own fault, you know. In Vegas, you're having a good time so much that it's hard to know when to stop. Me, I stopped too late." Drag. "And hey, It's the same thing as being an actress, anyway. Except instead of sleeping your way to the top, you're sleeping with the bottom of the barrel." She looked at the girl. "That was a joke. You're allowed to laugh, you know.

The young starlet was uncharacteristically somber. "I don't feel much like laughing," she said.

The elevator started again. They rode it up in silence. After a few moments the doors opened and the woman in red put out her cigarette. She held the door and looked at her young friend. "Look-- what's your name?"

The blonde smiled. "Marilyn," she said.

The brunette cackled appreciatively. "Fair enough," she said. "Look, Marilyn, it's very rare that I get to be deep, so I'm going to give you some advice. From an acting vet, you know? Get out of here. Get as far away as you can. Show biz can seem glamorous and fun and whatever, but in the end it's just like this elevator. It looks nice and promises to take you to the top, but you'll just wind up getting trapped." She let the doors close. "Remember that. I mean it." And then she was gone.

Marilyn got up and looked around herself, and suddenly she realized that the woman in red was absolutely right. The elevator did look nice. It had plush carpeting and mahogany walls. It was also surprisingly well lit. She wondered why she didn't notice it before.

The doors opened again and Marilyn walked to her scheduled room. She knocked on the door. "Come in!" said a voice. Marilyn did as she was told. Facing her from a recliner was an obese, balding, and utterly repulsive middle-aged man adorned only in a silk robe. "You're late," he said simply.

She hadn't lied to the woman in red. Her name really was Marilyn. She really was nineteen. And she'd be damned if she didn't deserve an Academy Award for her acting.

"Happy birthday, Mr. President," she sang through a soulless smile as she unzipped her dress.

George Bland parked his rented beige Chevy Malibu in the lot, walked into the lobby of the hotel, and pushed the elevator button. He was still pumped up from the all-day board meeting. They'd been trying to reach agreement on how to account for the costs of the Amalgamated Consolidated Incorporated acquisition. He brushed some lint off of his gray suit and was deeply engrossed in a mental comparison of cost recovery alternatives when the elevator arrived.

Ding!

The door opened, and two men wearing fedoras and carrying violin cases ran out.

"Guido! There he is!" one of them said, pointing across the lobby. As George stepped into the elevator, he saw the men opening their cases. He saw a glint of metal inside one of them, but the door closed before he could see more.

Nodding at the two other men on the elevator, George looked at the mirrored walls, adjusted his dark gray tie, and wondered whether his interest rate assumption should be a half a point higher.

"I just don't think a chorus of bullfrogs has what it takes to get on Letterman," said one of the men to the other.

"What if the tadpoles do a synchronized swim?" said the other.

"Maybe, but only for the stupid pet tricks segment," replied the first.

"But I don't want to be just another novelty act!"

Ding! "Conference Center, Level 1," said the elevator's automated voice.

The door opened; the men left, and two women stepped inside.

"So what do you think? Does a giraffe need a double high cargo container, or can we air-freight him lying on his side?" said one woman to the other.

Before there was time to respond, a security guard of some kind poked his head in the door. He was brandishing an automatic weapon, and he was talking to someone on a walkie-talkie.

"Two white males with brown hats and violin cases." He looked at George. "Have you seen anyone like that?"

George was too surprised to speak. He merely nodded and pointed down.

"The lobby! Code 42!" the security guard shouted into the walkie talkie.

The elevator doors closed, and George went back to his math.

The two women hadn't even noticed.

"Selma, you can't ship a giraffe lying down--the cargo plane isn't wide enough!"

"Oh, phooey. I forgot about that. Well, how are we going to get him to Tallahassee by Tuesday?"

Ding! "Conference Center, Level 2," the elevator interrupted.

The door opened, and the two women left, still discussing the logistics of transporting giraffes.

Alone again, George tried to pick up his train of thought. If the profit from the enterprise was ten basis points higher, then the--

George's concentration was broken when three more passengers entered, loudly arguing about something.

"Lou, you can't be serious! Binney & Smith can't divert that much product that quickly!"

The elevator door closed.

"Then you'll have to see if Dow Chemical can make a substitute."

"Look, Lou, Dow doesn't make anything like it. I agree that we need five tons of Silly Putty to do this, but we can't get it by Tuesday!"

Ding! "Conference Center, Level 3."

They left, and George continued to work his mental spreadsheet, hardly noticing as five new passengers stepped in: an Air Force Lieutenant General, two staff officers, a businessman, and an aide.

"...so the whole area is cordoned off."

"Do you think it was manned, er, occupied?"

"Stan, we can't discuss it here; it's classified."

"How long?"

"Ninety feet."

"Wow. So how are you going to get it out of the crater? It sounds like it's too heavy for a Sikorsky Skycrane, or even the Super Stallion. "

"That's where you come in. We need three of your blimps."

Ding! "Conference Center, Level 4."

They left, and George was happy to be able to think in peace. A prime rate of six and three quarters or lower would allow for an accelerated cost recovery rate if the accruals could be done in time.

A couple entered, obviously in love.

"Like yesterday?" she whispered.

"Except upside down," he replied.

"That sounds hard," she said.

"It's worth it. Trust me."

He ignored them, and mentally calculated return on investment for each of Amalgamated's seven businesses.

Ding! "Tenth floor."

The intertwined couple disengaged long enough to leave. The door closed, leaving George alone with his thoughts, for once. He decided on a five year accelerated capitalization of assets.

Ding! "Penthouse. Platinum Elite Club suites."

He opened the door to his suite and walked in. His wife was waiting, dressed in her usual gray sweat suit.

"How was your day?" she asked.

"Oh, the same old stuff," replied George.

"Do you ever think you're in a rut?" she asked.

"Nah," said George. "What could be more interesting than accounting?"

The elevator doors trundle open on the Lobby floor, admitting the cacophony of hundreds of slot machines and other mechanized money collectors, in addition to a well-dressed man wearing a tailored suit, jacket buttoned, and a stylish wide-brimmed hat, pulled slightly down over the eyes. The elevator's eye is up in the ceiling and therefore cannot see the man's face.

No matter; the video signal is continuously sent to digital recorders in the sub-basement where it is scrutinized thoroughly every four hours. As such, the elevator remains unconcerned; it's reason for being is to transport passengers up and down, non-stop, 24 hours a day. It makes no judgments, it just does what it's told.

The man stabs at the '17' button with a finger and then stands at ease, hands clasped in front, as the doors close, shutting out the discordant commotion of vacationing novice gamblers losing money and enjoying every minute of it. He feels the subtly reassuring feeling of impulsion indicating that the elevator is moving briskly skyward.

The inside surface of the door is dull, brushed aluminum and the elevators' eye sees only the man's reflection, a featureless wraith-like figure.

Two floors up the man, still not looking up, produces a small tool-kit and removes the main cover-plate to the right of the door. He reaches in and fiddles with the switches and wires until the central control detects the lift stopping on the 17th floor; however, it continues on to the penthouse where the doors swish smoothly open. The passenger manipulates one last switch that keeps the door open, then steps out and turns around. He produces a length of yellow "caution" tape which he hangs across the door, then disappears off to the left.

The elevator, unconcerned with these events, sees with its eye-in-the-sky four potential passengers peer in, notice the open control panel, then move on to the other elevator. Business as usual.

Two minutes and 34 seconds since the lifts doors last opened the man returns, still not looking up, walking through the yellow tape. Inside he wads up the tape and sticks it in a pocket, then quickly reaches back into the control panel and returns the wires and switches to their original configuration. He then stabs at the Lobby button and the elevator descends steadily from the penthouse level (though central control sees it as descending from the 17th floor).

The man produces a white cloth from another pocket and dabs at his face underneath the hat brim. The cloth comes away speckled with red.

The cloth is put away and from somewhere else inside the jacket the man produces a pistol. He ejects the nearly-empty magazine from the grip and replaces it with a fully charged one, then unscrews a sound suppressor which is pocketed, then the pistol is returned to its shoulder holster.

The man again waits patiently until the doors glide open, allowing the clamor and garish lights to invade the usually quiet confines of the elevator once more. He exits calmly, tipping his hat even further to the boarding passengers, a 40-something couple that, thanks to an illegal chemical-cocktail, thinks they're still 20-somethings.

The woman looks up at the elevator's eye and with a wavering, uncertain smile, pulls her shirt up over her head; then, suddenly self-conscious, she pulls it back down. Meanwhile her companion, trying to jab a certain button on the control panel, finally leans in close and connects with the one labeled "Penthouse".

The doors trundle closed once again, shutting out the clamor, and the lift rises steadily...

The twenty story Luxuria Arms was the place for many well-to-do folks to spend a night. And naturally, being able to afford the year’s rent on one of the more spacious and posh apartments on the top 10 floors was a status symbol for many.

I was here for only one reason: I was one of the elevator operators. The job was a mixed bag (or as visitors loved to joke, it had it ups and downs – ha ha), like anything else. I got to know some of the tenants pretty well, though, even better than they probably realized. Oh, I could tell you so many stories – for example, let me tell you about the group that entered at the same time a few days ago.

These five men were all out of their apartments for different reasons. Through a twist of coincidence, each of them lived on consecutive floors – not including the empty unlucky 13th floor, that is. All of them had lived here so long that management turned a blind eye to their “minor” rules infractions. I’d tried to report on one of them before, and only received a scolding to mind my own business.

They were, in no particular order, Carl, Mr. Jacobs, the man returning from work, the fellow known to ignore the public nudity regulations, and the person who lived on the highest floor, the 15th. The latter would normally end up being the last to leave, though this didn’t happen. But I’m getting ahead of myself; let me review them one by one.

Closest to me was the man clutching a bag of groceries that included food for an illegal pet. He (who wasn’t Ben or Mr. Hicks) did his best to keep its contents secret from everyone.

Next to him was Mr. Klein, whose first name was not Arnold. I didn’t think he suffered from claustrophobia, but he seemed rather fidgety today.

Dennis was in the middle of this impromptu lineup, looking a bit tired from his jog. Or maybe it was from his upstairs neighbor throwing an overly loud party again. I wondered what he would say if I told him that person also rode in this car.

Next was the man returning from his dealer, though he’d be surprised that I knew about his marijuana habit. Irony had no hold here, as he was neither Mr. Farmer nor Mr. Green. Then again, “Green” wasn’t the real name of the person in question, despite Luxuria’s by-laws regarding truth in identity.

Farthest away was the man waiting for the 10th floor, and his departure. He seemed to want little to do with this crowd, recoiling when another sneezed. In fact, let me think about each departure in order. Next was Mr. Farmer, then the pet owner, then Eric and finally the man who’d refused to leave on the 12th floor.

Yes sir, I thought I knew it all about these men, but I had one surprise coming. That last man to leave I mentioned near the beginning? It seems he left to get a roll of film developed. That film showed some of my own wrongdoings (which I’d obviously not get into), and he let me know that he and others wouldn’t put up with me trying to spill the beans. I agreed, knowing we were now in this together.

But my question to you is, can you tell me who it was? If you followed the clues, the full name, floor, infraction and reason for return for every person should be clear.

(Ed note: The answer will appear in the comments. Good solving to you!)

Mr. Sinclair was sweating when he ducked onto the elevator at the last moment before the doors closed. His concern that his fellow upward travelers might remember his perspiration was unfounded, however, for he was in the city of Las Vegas, that neon oasis in the Nevada desert, where the outside temperature was currently a balmy ninety four degrees, and fully half of his companions were similarly damp around the edges from their recent sojourns along the Strip. That the climate had nothing at all to do with the high humidity level in Sinclair's immediate locality was his little secret.

The doors glided shut with an opulent whisper, and Sinclair tried not to think about the implications of being sealed inside a box, however plushly-appointed it might be. He glanced around, but from his position at the front of the elevator, the only person he could casually scrutinize was the Hawaiian-shirt-clad tourist to his left, who was clutching the fruits of his labors at the poker table in a sweaty hand and breathlessly announcing to his captive audience that he would be a strong contender in the next World Series, for sure. Sinclair (along with a percentage of the elevator's population that the tourist would probably consider unfavorable odds) was fantasizing about shooting Hawaiian-Shirt-Guy in the head when the elevator chimed melodically, the doors glided apart and the would-be high-roller departed for his budget suite on the third floor.

A few other people also exited, and Sinclair used the moment of hustle and bustle to sidle nervously to a back corner of the elevator where he could more clearly see everyone else on board. In front of him, three name-tagged businessmen were discussing the finer points of their conference's morning keynote address. An amorous young couple whom Sinclair took to be newly-weds were attracting dirty looks from the older, grayer couple next to them. An Elvis impersonator who looked very much the worse for wear slumped glumly against the wall, and Sinclair wondered briefly what his story was. And standing by himself in the opposite corner of the elevator was the man Sinclair had been hired to kill.

The elevator continued its skyward journey, stopping frequently to discharge some of its occupants and to take on others, but Sinclair, having identified his target, paid little attention to the people who entered and departed his enclosed surroundings. He was still sweating profusely, something was slowly twisting in his gut, and a small voice at the back of his mind was insistently telling him to make a run for it as soon as the doors opened. With a supreme effort of will, Sinclair bundled his inner turmoil into a small, cramped corner of his mind, and focused on ignoring the way the elevator walls seemed to be closing in on him.

After a brief eternity, hunter and prey were finally alone together in the elevator.

"You must be Mr. Sinclair," said the prey. "I've been expecting you. Won't you come up with me to the penthouse suite?"

Sinclair, who was breathing more easily now that he had a little more space, was nevertheless startled mute, and merely nodded as the man he was supposed to execute punched in the access code to proceed upwards to the pinnacle of the building.

The elevator doors slid open one final time, and the prey ushered Sinclair into a spacious foyer as if he were an honored guest.

"A little claustrophobic, are you?"

Sinclair nodded, his voice still trapped in his throat. What was his prey playing at?

The prey inclined his head. "Well, Mr. Sinclair, I do understand you're here to take care of a business concern, so whenever you're comfortable and ready ... Oh, but do bear in mind that when you're finished up here, the only way back down is the way you came up. Alternatively, should you choose to leave your business ... unfinished, you may depart from the helipad with my blessings."

Sinclair reached into his jacket and drew out a small gun. He stared at it for a long while, then set it on the floor and slid it away from him.

"I won't do it, sir. I can't deal with confined spaces. Sorry for troubling you."

"No trouble at all. My assistants here-" the former prey snapped his fingers and two large men sporting extensive collections of tattoos appeared from around the corner "-will accompany you to the roof. No confined spaces up there, and the trip to the ground is much faster than the elevator."

Sinclair opened his mouth to protest, but the prey-turned-predator held up a finger.

"You may leave your business unfinished, Mr. Sinclair, but I hope you won't take it personally if I take care of mine."

We stood there, staring at the closed doors in front of us. My girlfriend stood leaning up against me laughing at some people dressed up as klingons complete with makeup that had walked by earlier. I smiled because I knew she didn’t get the whole Star Trek thing here at the Hilton in Las Vegas. She had come to The Experience with me after some pleading, some coaxing, and some intoxication to make the decision easier.

I looked around us as we waited for the elevator to come down and get us. We were in a short hall lined by elevators on both sides. Between the elevators mirrors stood so that everyone could see just how broke and drunk they were. I caught sight of us in one of the mirrors and we made quite the pair; where I stood at 6’6 with short wavy dirty blonde hair she was just 5’6, with long straight black hair. The only thing we seemed to have in common at first glance is we both wear glasses and our eyes shown with love for each other.

The doors in front of us slowly opened allowing us to enter the elevator car. We did the traditional walk in and turned around to see who else entered with us. I tried to hide my smile while my girlfriend rolled her eyes. A man dressed up as a vulcan and a woman as a Star Fleet officer in a red uniform had come in with us. The vulcan kept his face straight and offered up the traditional V-shaped salute with his hand.

“Live long and prosper.”

My girlfriend hid her face in my side trying hard not to laugh. Figuring I’d have some fun I raised my hand and returned the salute.

“Peace and long life.”

He bowed his head slightly then turned and faced the door. I laughed a little knowing I’d just embarrassed my girlfriend and hit the button for the top floor. The officer, a lieutenant from the small gold and black pips on her collar, had been about to press the same button. The car began to move up while we stood in silence. After a few floors it stopped and a few more people came in, along with a few surprised looks at our two companions. One of the newcomers, who seemed to have had a bit too much to drink, wavered a little as he walked in. He smiled at the Star Trek couple just before becoming a smartass and started a conversation with the two trekkies.

“So did you two just beam in from the Enterprise tonight?”

“Not the Enterprise, the Saratoga. We’re on personal leave.” The lieutenant said without hesitation.

With a wide grin he looked over at the vulcan, “When is your seven year itch due?”

The vulcan remained quiet for a moment before finally replying, “I am not familiar with this ‘seven year itch.’” He turned and looked at the officer, “Is this a human condition? An itch every seven years? It seems to me that humans adore scratching themselves much more often then that.”

A few of us laughed as the drunk asking the questions had been scratching himself rather inappropriately at that moment. He turned a slight shade of red but was saved when the elevator stopped again. He stepped off as another couple walked in; they simply smiled at the two trekkies and pushed an already lit floor button.

The car continued up to its last stop before our floor and let out the rest of our group leaving us alone with the officer and vulcan once again. They glanced at us as the doors closed and an uncomfortable silence reigned as the car continued to the top floor. My girlfriend put her arm around me and in return I put my arm around her shoulders. I leaned down and kissed her which elicited a raised eyebrow from my vulcan friend.

The elevator finally reached the top floor and let us out. As our companions left the vulcan silently lifted his hand and extended his index and middle fingers out, the officer did likewise but put them up against his. I smiled recognizing the gesture as we all left the elevator. We turned right out of the hallway towards our suite while they walked the opposite way. Just as we got to the end about to round a corner I thought I heard a strange whine sound and saw some kind of flash; but when I turned around too look the other couple had vanished though the air almost seemed to shimmer for a moment. I shrugged, smiled, and kissed my girl again. We headed around the corner to our room laughing the rest of the way.

One
I hate riding the elevator. Although I like the view from the top, so I always rent the Penthouse. The bad part is having to share the ride up with every weirdo in the hotel. The uncomfortable silence, the smells, the unstable, all seem to team up to try to ruin my day. The doors are closing, here we go.

Two
Grandma and Grandpa, sporting the most stylish walkers and matching sweat suits. Of course you’ll ride along. Not much to look forward to I guess. Uh, Grandma, you may want to check Pa’s Undependable before you leave the room the next time, smells like an outhouse at the County Fair.

Three
The door opens on the rest of the nursing home. No takers? Thank God.

Four
Homeboys, yo, wut up? I’m entranced by the handshaking. How do they remember all that? Thankfully I can’t understand a word they’re saying, but I think they’re happy. Grandpa’s smell is so thick I can taste it. Literally, it’s stuck to my tongue. I don’t think the homeys can take it, they’re bailing.

Five
Nobody, but the door opens anyway, Puffy and his posse jump out. Grandma and Grandpa want to talk, “How’s your luck?” they ask.

“Well right now, I think Luck has taken a giant dump in my mouth, or maybe that wasn't Luck."

They didn’t like that.

Six
Adios Old Folks. Ah, alone again. I always wonder if someone is watching me on the camera. I start doing the Milkshake, switch off to the Macarena, then back. They’ll like that.

Seven
Hello, three young ladies with no idea they forgot to put their shirts on. All three are talking ninety miles an hour and the smell of Patchouli is blinding. I shouldn’t complain though, I can’t taste Grandpa anymore.

Eight, Nine, Ten, and Eleven
The Wonder Triplets just figured out they’re headed in the wrong direction. And off you go, bye-bye now.

Twelve
Three business men step in, red faced and portly, bragging to each other about the damage they did to the buffet the night before. And, of course, a fart so bad the elevator seems to stop. It makes me immediately miss Grandpa. Not even the lingering Patchouli can mask its fury, and the “gentlemen” can’t mask their joy. Giggling like girls, they trade blame and bask in the fecal aroma, with no apparent concern whatsoever for their dry cleaner.

“Ah, guys, there’s a restroom on thirteen, I think one or all of you should stop and wipe."

My comment sends them over the top and I can't help laugh-gagging along with them.

Thirteen
Out with the flatulent, in with the Japanese, seventeen in all. I am crushed into the corner. If it wasn’t for the possibility of some serious Karate action I would say something. Oh well, at least they smell nice.

Fourteen, Fifteen, and Sixteen
I’m in pain.

Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, and Twenty
Sayonara tourists. Three of them whirl and snap my picture on the way out. Crushed and blinded. So far so good.

Twenty-one
The Nudger gets on. This is the guy who has to rub up against you even though there’s no one else aboard.

“Pardon me, but could we have dinner before we make love?” I ask.

No answer, and he doesn’t move either. That’s scary.

Twenty-two
Working girls, two of them, and the smell says they’ve been working. The Nudger picks a new target and she seems accommodating. I don’t think she’ll require dinner either.

Twenty-three
All three passengers get off, I wish them a good day and one of the ladies says, “You know it, Baby!” I'm sure her parents must be proud.

Twenty-four, five, six, and seven
Time alone, fleeting yet satisfactory. The door opens on twenty-seven, and in walks a man in women’s garb. Picture d**k Cheney with a blond wig and red lipstick. He gives me a grin and a wink. I grimace and try to enjoy the fact that he has nice taste in perfume.

Twenty-eight
The man-thing makes his move.

“I’m in 2840 if you’d like some company,” he, she, he says.

I nod and try not to look scared.

Twenty-nine and thirty
I’m so close, five more floors to go, and in walks the nightmare, the Mumbler. Deeply engaged in an angry conversation and working both sides of the argument.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

"Frabble glabbin snartin glotten risten Fragger!!!” he replies, only not to me.

He looks to the left for one side of the argument, and to the right for the other. OK then, I squeeze as far into the corner as possible and keep a wary eye on the Mumbler. This dude is ready to snap. I go to my happy place and keep my fingers crossed. I’m almost there.

Thirty-one, two, three, and four
With an angry glance, the Mumbler bids me adieu. I'm home free.

Thirty-five
I have arrived. I run to my room like I’m heading to first base. I reach in my pocket for the key card, and it’s not there. I look back slowly. The elevator seems to to be grinning.

“Going down?” it asks sarcastically.

Maggie yawned as she finished the merry-go-round trip through the revolving door of her office building. She wasn’t really tired but this was the first step of a process repeated each morning as she walked toward the elevators. For the convenience of the tenants in the 45-story building, the designers had wisely included six elevators. Each had a modern display showing the elevator number, its current floor and direction.

As she sauntered past the elevators, Maggie glanced to determine the location of number Five. It was currently on the 22nd floor and heading downward. Even though number One was at the lobby level with doors open, that wasn’t the one she wanted. She kept walking toward the statue gracing the end of the lobby.

Once there she studied it with a concentration that gave no indication she repeated the same process almost daily. At the same time, she watched the elevators until number Five came available. Maggie quickly boarded it along with other passengers. As she pressed the button for her floor, her face softened in a contemplative smile which graced her lips but gave no hint of its reason.

Standing at the front desk of the lobby, Michael watched this process with the same curiosity he felt every morning. He turned to Jason, the security guard seated at the desk, who remarked, “You’re right, boss, she did it exactly the way you said.” Michael mused, “It makes me wonder why.” Jason replied, “I guess that as head of security , you could declare it suspicious behavior, detain her and make her tell you.” The same thought had crossed his mind, but he felt it would be an intrusion that he didn’t care to impose.

Michael’s brow furrowed as he developed a strategy to board the elevator with only her . Jason smiled his approval when he told him the plan. One morning as she entered number Five, he nodded at the security guard, strode over and boarded the car. Michael randomly pressed a number higher than her floor.

Maggie scrutinized him in a way that would be considered appropriate for a woman alone on an elevator with a stranger. Not really a stranger; she realized she had seen him before in the building. She nodded a polite but non-committal hello. Just after the car started, it executed a series of jilts, the lights flickered and the car stopped completely, leaving them in total darkness. Before she even had a chance to decide if she was going to panic or not, the emergency lighting came on, bathing them in a pale glow. She saw a look of frustration and concern on the face of the man as he reached for the phone at his waist.

Michael pressed the button for the walkie-talkie and spoke into it, “Jason!” “Yeah, boss?” was the response. “I’m in the elevator on car,” he glanced up to the sign as if he hadn’t paid attention when he got on, “ Five and it has come to an emergency stop. What’s going on?” Maggie determined during the ensuing conversation that apparently theirs was the only car stopped and Jason, the security guard from the lobby, was going to make haste and get maintenance to fix the problem and rescue his boss.

Michael then told Jason that there was a passenger with him and turned to Maggie to ask if Jason could notify someone where she was. “Oh please. I don’t want my office to worry.” He relayed the information to Jason and she thanked him. He smiled in a way that filled her with confidence and introduced himself, “Since you just told me your name.”

Informal conversation followed, and Maggie and Michael discovered they had much in common. As they talked, they found themselves moving closer to each other, and the dim light in the car seemed to glow with an unexpected intimacy. Suddenly Michael’s face flushed and he turned away from Maggie. Almost angrily he snapped into the walkie-talkie, “Jason, I think this elevator ought to be working by now.” Just then the lights returned to normal and the car began to move.

As he turned back to Maggie, he was surprised to see that she was stifling a laugh. “You arranged this, didn’t you? And you’re blushing!” Her sudden blush mirrored his. Hesitantly he explained why he was so curious about her and why she always rode number Five. During this explanation, he realized that the reason was no longer important to him. What mattered most is that he was extremely attracted to this intriguing woman.

She touched his hand lightly. “It’s a long story, and a bit silly,” she responded. “But,” she continued, “I am looking forward to taking a long time to tell it.”

Elevator music is great!

However, the last thing you ever want to do in an elevator is let on that you actually enjoy the music. If you whistle along to the tune, you’ve had it. No-one will engage in any polite conversation with you after that. Well, that was the first of my many mistakes. The second, was trying to make a joke out of me whistling along to elevator music.

“At least I don’t like house music…this is elevator music though, much more, erm…flamboyant. ”

I didn’t say it was a funny joke and as you can imagine I didn‘t get any laughs from it, not even a pity laugh. I shouldn’t have drawn attention to myself. Mistake number three! Now I’ll be known as ‘The Creepy Dude In The Elevator’ for the numerous years I work here (and at the rate I’m going it might be quite a small number).

As you may (or may not) have gathered, it’s my first day at a new job. I’ll set the scene. In an elevator. It’s hot, it’s busy, it smells rather odd (which, by the way, isn‘t me) and it has stopped between floors 17 and 18.To top things off I am now surrounded by 6 people who think I am slightly deranged. Well, whilst I am stuck here with no-one to talk to other than my own sub-conscious (that’s you) I might as well have a good look at who I’ll be working with.

Michelle - She is, helpfully, wearing a name tag. Okay so, tall, blond, applying make-up (even although she looked like she was wearing all of the make-up in the world when she first got on). She’ll be the one that stands by the water cooler and gossips. It’s more than likely that she’ll be the genius behind ‘Creepy Dude In The Elevator’.

Joseph - Also wearing a name tag. Looks very average, wears glasses, short and spiked hair that looks like it has been washed in hair gel and a very expensive looking laptop, which he is using to play DOOM4 by the looks of it. He’s not very good at it mind you, I’m three levels ahead of him and he has cheats activated. Kind of off the subject but important for my ego.

Okay, on to the nameless but hopefully not shameless.

Janitor - Well…he’s just a janitor really. He does have a mop and bucket with him which might explain the horrible smell though.

Someone who looks like their name could be Margaret - The oldest of the 6, she looks like the sweetheart of the office. Stereotypical elderly woman, grey hair, wearing a woollen jumper, a blouse, and rimmed glasses held around her neck by beads. You know the ones I mean. I’ve decided I’ll call her Maggie no matter what her name turns out to be. I like her.

Respectable looking man - Expensive pinstriped suit, on his mobile phone (in an elevator, what network is he on?) and always checking his watch. Big executive, he probably doesn’t even know I’m here. Which is a good thing cause it means he won’t have heard my lousy joke and therefore will have no opinion on me (yet). And no opinion is better than a bad opinion.

Then there is the one that interests me most. He has been staring at me for the past five minutes (that’s about as long as I’ve been rambling on to you about everyone else) and I don’t think he likes me very much. His eyes are like magnifying glasses and I’m the ant he is trying to burn.

“You look scared!”

What did he just say?

“Don’t worry, we aren’t all as dull and boring as we seem. Hi, I’m Roland”

Is this a trick? I bet it’s a trick. Be all friendly to the new guy in the elevator but once you get out call him ‘Creepy Dude In The Elevator’ behind his back.

“…Hello, excuse me are you okay?”

“Oh yeah I’m just great, this is the most fun I’ve had in years.”

“Tell me about it. This happens more often than you’d think, we should really get it fixed. Do you want to hear something funny though…

“Go on then,”

“…there is always one person who whistles that tune.”