Doughboy

THE ELEVATOR OPERATOR

THE ELEVATOR OPERATORBartholomew Yam pushed the elevator button. Immediately the door swished open, as if the elevator had been waiting for him. Inside, a gnarled-looking man who looked like a hump-backed toad stared back at Yam with a blank face indicative of extreme boredom. The man, who apparently operated the elevator, turned large, moist eyes and forward-jutting jaw toward Yam.

Yam stepped inside.

“Here for the convention, sir?”

“Yes, that's right.”

The elevator's door closed and the two men stared at each other for an uncomfortable amount of time. The man's name tag had 'Sammy' written on it in stark, white letters. Sammy's mouth, a thin-lipped slit, seemed stretched to the breaking point. His skin looked moist, as if he had just taken a dip in the ocean. The mouth wheezed as it sucked in oxygen, and a sound that was hard to identify – but resembled a rug being pulled with difficulty across a hardwood surface by an anorexic – filled the interior of the elevator. Disconcerting, too, was the smell of water that filled the small enclosure. Yam glanced at the floor of the elevator, just to make sure he wasn't standing in anything wet. As he looked up, Yam caught sight of Sammy's legs, which were bowed as if he were ready to hop to the other side of the small interior of the elevator's cabin.

“It's a horrible affair, sir. There's just no getting around it.” Sammy's voice was thick, as if the words were being forcibly expelled. “There's just no getting around it,” he said again.

Yam had no idea what Sammy was talking about.

“I'm just a simple person, really, with simple thoughts and a simple way to make a living. Not like you writers with your strange ideas. Take me, for example: I've been an elevator operator for going on 52 years. Yes, sir, 52 years can be a long time standing in one place. The pull of gravity, sir. It weighs you down, the heavy burden of years on the body, tugging and pulling until you wonder if you can take any more. The constant pressure, the constant struggle of going up and down, and then pushing buttons over and over again, with no let up, no interaction.” Sammy's moist eyes, which were located higher up on his skull, then turned toward Yam.

“In my memory,” Sammy continued, “I loved the quiet one finds at night and the way the stars sparkled off the surface of the ocean…the passage of the moon in the sky. I can remember these things, sir. Being dedicated to the elevator, I can only imagine now how the clouds and the sky appear to everyone else. The things they must see, the sights that must astound. The sheer wonder of the world is lost to me, sir. Lost forever, I'm afraid. You see, sir, I wasn't permitted to go outside. Not allowed at all, sir. Oh, no. I might get fired – or worse – if I ventured away from my elevator and the awful responsibilities entrusted in me. You see, sir, it's my privilege to move the customers up and down. Sometimes, someone might wish to go to the first floor. At other times, someone might wish to go to the fourth floor. You must understand, sir, it may appear very simple, but it's actually very complicated. There's always a floor that is needed, and Sammy is always here to assist in those endeavors, whether one goes to the fourth floor or to the seventh floor or to another floor. Of course, sir, these are only examples, as you no doubt realize.”

Yam remained silent, afraid that if he spoke he might wake up and find himself trapped beneath a car. He decided to break his silence or go mad with curiosity. The man's story was pathetic, unbelievable.

“Why not just leave?”

“It's always the same, day in and day out,” Sammy said, ignoring Yam's question.

“You're unable to leave this elevator? I really find that hard to believe.” Yam felt like laughing, but didn't want to needlessly offend the old man.

“Stranger things have happened, you know. They've put up a force field, one that keeps me from leaving. Day in, day out, it's my lot to push the buttons, to keep the elevator moving and to move the customers to their desired floor.”

Sammy's right hand moved to the elevator's buttons, as if summoned by an unknown force. The fingers, Yam noticed, were long and knobby and had unusual pads on the ends which made them look flattened. Sammy caressed the buttons, his fingers seeming to engulf the white ivory.

“I'm not complaining, sir. No, Sammy never complains. Sammy loves the smooth softness of the buttons, the way the '1' leads naturally to the '2' and then the '2' leads to the '3.' There's an order to everything that one can't help but admire. See, sir, how all the numbers seem to have a life of their own? Whoever designed the buttons must have been a genius. There's a certain rightness about it. Don't you agree, sir?”

Would this ride never end? Yam thought. He was only going to the third floor, but getting there seemed to be taking forever.

“I discovered them 52 years ago. The aliens.” Sammy raised his head to the elevator's ceiling, as if the aliens might be up there looking down.

Yam, too, raised his head.

Sammy's voice continued to drone on. “They promised me a different life, sir. Different than my life as an elevator operator.” Sammy paused, as if gathering inner strength. “I was young, then. Yes, young. And I believed them. Who wouldn't? They said they were from another planet. They wanted to make me one of them. In their image, they said. I would report to them, to help them with their Plan.” Sammy laughed, the sound reverberating around the elevator's small enclosure like a trapped animal trying to escape. “How could I know what they had in mind? How was I supposed to know? Look at me now, sir,” Sam wheezed. “They've changed me.”

Yam looked, too dumbfounded to say anything. He noticed a spreading puddle of water under Sammy's feet, which he now realized were webbed and n***d and resembled those of a frog. Sammy's arms – or forelimbs – were much shorter than his hind limbs. Sammy looked like he might be ready to hop away, if given half the chance.

There was a slight lurch as the elevator came to an abrupt stop.

“Well, here we are, sir. Third floor.”

“Thank you…Sammy.” How had Sammy known that he wanted the third floor?

Yam stepped through the elevator door and onto a beige carpet. He turned around as the doors started to close, just in time to see Sammy's nodding head, the pads on his limbs once again caressing the ebony-colored row of buttons. There was an abrupt 'whisk' of compressed air as the door closed completely. Yam stared at the departing elevator as it continued on its journey, much like an observer watching a departing plane.

He walked along the carpet, careful to avoid the many puddles of water.