Boxed in

I would like to dedicate this post to Brent.

I do not know Brent, but he works in the same building as I do in downtown Toronto. He has worked downtown for about three years, previously working closer to Newmarket, a comparably easier  commute to his suburban home. Brent has short hair, two kids, ages eight and six and a wife who recently became a stay at home mom because the factory she was working at shut down.

Why do I know so much about this affable chap Brent? Well Brent and I now share a story of a lifetime. Yesterday, as I was scooting off to a dental appointment, Brent and I found each other descending in the same elevator to the ground floor. Upon reaching said ground floor, the doors did not open, in fact, after a brief pause, the numbers all flashed and the elevator began a quick ascent and stopped, at its peak, on the sixteenth floor.

During this quick rise to the top, Brent and I shared nervous looks and when it stopped, I told him I would be bolting out of this elevator as soon as the doors opens. He heh hehed and nodded. But the doors did not open. They remained steadfast and closed.

So big bad new buddy Brent, what now? Of course jittery Jason, press the emergency button.

“Hello” echoed the very grainy voice on the other end of the elevator phone line.

“Um, hi there, we are stuck in the elevator on the 16th floor.”  I said, taking the communication lead.

So thus began the back and forth with the front desk security guard who was both incoherent (excused as English was not his first language) and completely inadequate in managing an increasingly stressful situation.  Inexcusable, especially to trained communicator.

45 minutes we were trapped in a 9×9 ft elevator.

45 minutes we spent contemplating brute force and forcing doors open with our brawn (no way, doors were locked tight).

45 minutes we spent trying to ascertain how close the technician, who apparently is completely immersed in a communications vacuum, where neither cell phones, pagers or bull horns exist and thereby cannot be asked about something that might be important to the two people trapped in an elevator, his estimated arrival time.

45 minutes we spent alleviating the gradually building anxiety (mostly in me, Brent was a freaking rock, or deserves an Oscar) with conversations about our professions, our love of our kids (hey look a parenting connection) and the really banal things people talk about to avoid talk about overnights in elevators or having to use the bathroom or how the liquid cyborg in Terminator 3 easily pried open the elevator so why couldn’t we?

Truth is, this was almost like the worst nightmare and dream coming true at the exact same time. From an anxiety perspective, this is horrific, but deep down I never thought it was actually going to happen. So when it did happen, it became my own personal cognitive behavior therapy session. This was not something I had to imagine happening to me in the comfort of a corduroy chair with my eyes closed and whispers of a therapist dangling in my ear.

This was actually happening. Right here, right freaking now.

So I managed. I sat down, I stood up. I breathed and tried my best not to reach through the phone line and grip the throat of the security guard who was both telling me to calm down and seemed impatient at my very apt and topical questions. The Brent chatter was also helpful.  Anything to keep my mind off of thinking about the myriad of worst possible consequences of being trapped in an elevator.

So hell bucket list.  Thank you very much for that.

Lets put a substantial gap of time between the next live action CBT session shall we?