Elevator Music
A Short Story

Braden
The Men’s Chorus of West Aden High School sat nonchalantly in the rigid chairs of the tiered chorus classroom.  The students were talking amongst themselves, some of chemistry homework and others of the basketball team’s recent and rare showing in the state playoffs.  There was a division in the seating arrangement.  The tenors sat on the first row, while the baritones and basses congregated on the back.  The loving hostility in the room was palpable.  Their conductor, Mr. Drummond was seated behind his vast, black piano, positioned in the center of the room.  They were listening attentively to the morning announcements over the intercom.  Once the rasping voice of the office secretary subsided, Mr. Drummond, or “Drum” as he was affectionately called, began speaking.

“Before we begin, I’d just like to say congratulations to Braden, who has been invited to participate in the 2008 Young Musicians Choir in Chicago, Illinois.”

Applause inundated the room.

“This was an audition process and there were many talented singers from around the nation trying out.”

“Thanks, Drum,” replied Braden.  Braden was a senior bass, who had sung for Mr. Drummond in the Honors Chorus and Men’s Chorus for three years.  Singing was his passion and his crutch, for his middle-class, rural North Carolina family could not afford to pay for college outright.  Braden had short brown hair, gently combed forward, and fulsome green eyes.  He was slightly short, but muscular and his second-string position on the football team demanded the upkeep of such strength.

But football season was just for the college application.  Regardless of the football team’s success or the number of times Braden played, he could have cared less.  Spanish and Calculus were in the depths of the senior’s mind.  Braden’s school year truly began in the second semester, when the school’s annual Broadway Revue went underway, when the Honors Chorus began to prepare for state festival.  It was energizing and exhausting.  Braden was God’s gift to music and in many ways that was an accurate assessment.

Braden owed it all to “Drum.”  The renowned director had taught at West Anson High School for fifteen years, with all of his choirs attending state festival.  He was a stout and balding man, with a pointed face and gentle smile.  Purpose-driven and difficult, Mr. Drummond accepted no less than perfect, claiming that singing the notes of the score did met neither his standards, nor the standards of the festival judges.  Lecturing on passion and musical thought, “Drum” upheld a record of four straight “Overall Champion” awards at festivals.  Each trip to various colleges and universities for vocal competition resulted in the collection of ten or more gleaming trophies per visit.  His throne was his bench, his means of communicating, music.

“That said,” Mr. Drummond concluded.  He began playing “Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho” and melodious sounds drifted from the classroom and into the receptive hallways.  It resonated off the walls, greeting classrooms with harmony.  Braden had passion.  He would prepare for his first concert with the Young Musicians Choir that evening.  Tomorrow he would drive, and he would sing.


Julie
Julie Pearson, donned in a dreadful turquoise business suit, walked hastily from the subway station to her workplace in the metropolis of Chicago.  

The Windy City had always despised Julie, for some reason or another.  In winter she would be the one to fall on the densely packed ice.  After a rain shower, she would unmistakably spill the contents of her briefcase onto the damp roadway.  She often broke her heel on the curb, caught the glass door of her building unknowingly and destroyed her nail.  By the time she reached her suburban home in the late evening, she was devastated of the atrocities committed against her, the foulest of which was executed by the brisk wind, sending her hair in a dozen different directions.

On this particular day, however, Julie had her flaming red hair in a rigid bun.  Her black-rimmed square glasses were dangling from her thin nose and the pencil placed precariously behind her ear teetered ever so slightly.  She entered the bank headquarters and made her way to the tenth floor board room.  The building’s exterior was paneled with glass and its floor made of massive tiles.  This provided for excellent lighting in the board room and a priceless view of the Chicago skyline from the high vantage point.  Julie took a moment to gaze into the rising sun before turning to her colleagues and beginning the meeting.

Very keen on performing to the best of her ability and producing the finest product brochure that the International Bank of Chicago has seen, Julie did not accept what she called “half-ass” work.  In countless meetings such as this, she had lost it with her employees and debased them until they were little more than frightened, mumbling ignoramuses.  Loosing her temper was a frequently-occurring process for Julie, and it was feared beyond belief by her employees.  The board room saw many projects’ conclusions and many clients satisfied, but many more curses and insults.  Julie was opinionated and for the person who claimed women don’t belong in the workplace, she had several choice words.

“Andrew, the tax relays for client 75 better be on my desk by Monday or your ass is mine,” declared Julie authoritatively.  “And Meredith, I would spend a little less time putting on all that tan lotion and spend a little more on your client follow-up that had a deadline of two minutes ago.”

The mood of the room descended into timid apprehension.  Julie was not to be crossed this morning, but there were not many mornings which captured her otherwise.

“As for the rest of you, you know my expectations.  Should you fail to meet them, especially you, Chris, I’ll come down so hard on your ass you won’t be able to roll over in bed and cuddle with your imaginary gay life partner.  Understand?  If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my office.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Pearson, may I have a moment of your time?” inquired a young, stringy man in a brown suit and hideous yellow tie.

“No you may not, Nate, you may have two seconds.  Now ask whatever it is before Shelia finishes fixing my coffee, because afterwards, I’ll cease to listen to you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Nate said nervously, his voice shrill and whiny.  “I want a day off next week.”  Nate noticed Julie’s sudden expression of vexation and added, “…that is, of course, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Nate…no.”

Julie departed the board room and traveled the hallway.  She entered the confides of her office and closed the door on her fellow human race.   


Roger
Roger and Denise were going on seventy-five, a couple of fifty-eight years with four children, twelve grandchildren and two great-grandchildren.  And honestly, the family aggravated them to no end.  They would plan an outing with friends for weeks, but would cancel at the last minute due to the babysitter, or lack thereof, for their grandchildren.  The couple often scheduled these get-togethers with friends, whether it be to play cards, have a meal or just share photo albums, for the morning or midday.  However, the inopportune upchuck of their kindergarten-age grandchild’s lunch required an emergency pick-up service to the school.

And so, for weeks now, the two had surreptitiously devised a vacation, locking the hotel confirmation and itineraries far from plunders in a safe stowed in the depths of their closet.  They would tell no one, but simply leave a StickyNote on the door declaring to everyone their destination of Chicago, Illinois.  

Roger requested that they visit Lincoln Park.  Denise devised the couple’s entire weekend to allow for six hours of shopping, and when Roger realized this, flipping through the various documents they had accumulated, the trip itself was in jeopardy.

“What’s this?” he questioned, “Are we going on two different vacations?”  

“What?” retorted Denise.

“Six hour of shopping?  Have you lost your mind, woman?”

“No, I haven’t.  This is a once-in-a-lifetime-if-you-have-kids vacation, and I want to enjoy it.  And if that means draggin’ you shopping with me, I’ll do it.”

“No, I am putting my foot DOWN, and saying NO,” shouted Roger.

“God, Jim, you sound like I’m trying to get in your pants…and believe me, there will be NONE of that on the trip.”

“You’re so highly strung these days, I couldn’t give you an orgasm if I tried,” responded Roger coldly.

“Fine, you can have your shopping time, but I’m not spending half my vacation on some bench outside Macy’s.”

“Fine,” commanded Denise.

“Fine,” replied Roger.  

Denise exited the kitchen in a hailstorm of ill-mannered gestures, the mood of the trip altered from anticipation to hostility.  The seventy-four-year-old’s white, fluffy hair bounced with each stride, her plump figure waddling.

Roger adjusted his glasses and stared at the airline departure times gathered from the Internet.  The trip was days away and his wife was fuming.  What would the vacation bring?


James
Chicago was the origin of many famous composers, poets, athletes and actors, but also of homeless street-dwellers that rummaged through the undercooked salmon restaurants disposed of in the alleyways.  

One such “bum” was James Torrence, an African American, who had lived on the breadline in the Windy City for eight years.  Emaciated and tall, James dressed in a toboggan and a long-sleeve gray sweater, splitting at the seams and torn in the left arm and shoulder.  He made his bed in a district of decrepit wooden walls, covered in a thin piece of aluminum.  Throughout the community, the dispossessed gathered around warm fires and picked painstakingly at the animal corpses gathered that day.  Within the slum, alliances were made and violence ran rampant.  But nothing could be done.  The local government refused to provide relief for its residents.  Occasionally, the “ruling party” would target a single individual believed to be a disgrace to the area and timely dispose of him when the arrival of rotting lumber provided a distraction.  James was hopeless.

But somehow, in a haze of memory of light and salvation, James caught a break and was forgiven for his insolvent life of sin.  He found himself with an occupation, working as an elevator operator in a hotel, with benefits such as shelter and shower access…and food.


Braden
After initial rehearsal in the wee hours of the morning, Braden returned to his hotel in central Chicago.  As a result of the Young Musicians Choir concert, every hotel in the neighboring districts of the metropolis was completely booked.  Therefore, Braden struggled against the current of traffic every morning of his three-day stay.

Exhausted and out-of-breath, Braden returned to his hotel and purchased a small glass of lemonade, a beverage said to relax the throat and allow vocalists to sing through their soft pallet.  Intonation was pounded into the dreary-eyed choir that morning at seven o’clock, and Braden found it necessary to abide by the directors’ instructions and soothe the vocal chords.  

He climbed onto the elevator with a middle-aged business woman and elderly man that he assumed was vacationing, based on the bags stockpiled on a luggage cart beside him.  The elevator operator was stationed in the nearest corner, by the panel of buttons.

“Eight,” Braden requested of the operator and the tall black man pressed the button with the numeral eight on the panel.  

The elevator began to move.  Braden watched the electronic board above the doors change as the ascended the building.  However, somewhere between the fourth and fifth floor, the elevator jutted to a halt.  

The passengers glanced around, as if one of their fellow inhabitants of the eight-by-ten box was the culprit.  It was apparent that the elevator had malfunctioned and within moments, the business woman was cussing and the aged man pleading with the operator to fix the problem and reunited him with his wife.  Braden simply leaned against the wall and allowed himself to fall to the floor, his knees arched and face buried his arms.  So much for showering and watching television before afternoon rehearsals…


Julie
A possible business partner of the International Bank of Chicago had flown a representative to the Windy City to meet with Julie Pearson, the CEO of the Bank, about a corporate merge.  The representative, the vice president of another bank, had a suite in a hotel in central Chicago and Julie was in route.  The meeting scheduled for one-thirty, Julie was well ahead of the game plan, arriving at the hotel promptly at quarter-until-one.

She boarded the elevator stationed on the ground floor, joining a seventy-some-year-old man and a vast assortment of suitcases and totes on a cart.  The operator inquired her floor number.

“The suite floor, whatever number that is.  I have an important business meeting there,” snapped Julie as she adjusted her hair and delved into her briefcase.

“I am sorry ma’am, but I do not know what floor that is,” responded the operator cordially, grinning slightly as if to apologize.

“Jesus Christ, the elevator operator doesn’t even know what floor is which.  What the hell are they paying you for, then?” Julie questioned, irritated.

“I am sorry ma’am.  You can ask the front desk for your floor number.”

“No,” retorted Julie, “Just take this hundred-year-old-man to his bed before he has a stroke.  What is this, a nursing home?”  The man did not hear Julie’s remark, for he had not had his hearing-aids in for the duration of the commute to Chicago.

After several seconds, a young boy entered the elevator, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.  Disapproving of his apparel, Julie ignored the teenager and continued to fiddle with her business papers and tax forms.

Finally, the elevator began to move.  However, after some time of ascension, it stopped suddenly, causing Julie to look up from her work and flush with anxiety.

“Dammit!” she exclaimed.

Roger
Roger departed his wife, leaving her in their room as he returned to the car to collect their luggage.  He arrived at their 1994 Pontiac Grand Prix pushing a luggage cart.  After placing the various suitcases precariously onto the cart, he retraced his steps to his room.  Boarding the elevator, he mentioned his floor number to the black operator, who was dressed in brown uniform with gold fabric at every seam.  

Moments later a ginger business woman entered the elevator, mumbling incoherently and messing with papers.  A young boy also came onto the elevator and stood against the left wall.  

The variety of backgrounds and stories in the elevator caused a widespread feeling of discomfort, the tension between the somewhat racist, fiery business woman and the gracious African-America operator and the teenage music prodigy and the wise man on his seventy-fifth trip around the sun (his first to Chicago).

The doors closed and the small compartment began to move upward.  However, after several moments, however, the progress of the elevator stopped.  The lights flickered and chaos ensued.

Troubled at the thought of his wife, alone and helpless in their hotel room of central Chicago, Roger begged with the operator to rectify the problem and the business woman exploded in frustration.  The teenage boy sank to the floor in surrender, succumbing to the Fickle Finger of Fate.


James
For James the street-dweller turned employee of the Midway Hotel and Convention Center of Chicago, there was nothing to complain of.  With a steady income for food and clothing, the black man’s present conditions were a stark contrast to what they were three weeks prior.  

A casualty of circumstance, James’s parents died when he was a mere fourteen.  The children’s home was hostile and disheartening.  Therefore, with little more than diminished faith and a backpack of sparse provision, James departed the home two years later, a high school dropout and wannabe auto mechanic.  

For twenty years he skipped from job to job, from town to town in mid-Illinois.  After being caught for “possession,” James was incarcerated and sacked from his job as a fast food restaurant employee.

He spent three years in a state prison, anticipating his release and suicide.  However, a preacher man visited the prison and showed him the Lord Jesus.  And with a shrill cry of “Glory Hallelujah, Amen,” James Torrence was freed from the confines of the penitentiary and traveled to Chicago.

Regardless of his saving, James was not any better off than before his imprisonment.  Living in the center-city slum for eight long and agonizing years, James earned money anyway he could.  The thirty-four-year-old sold himself to the sex-crazed scandals of the street.  He robbed the assortment of small businesses in the city.  He played disjointed music on street corners.  And nothing changed.  No food, no home, no clothes, no car and no life.

And one day, sauntering along the sidewalk, his feet burdened with guilt, James was handed five one-hundred-dollar bills from a passing woman.  She was white-haired and lean, but with a brisk step in her walk.  After closing the money in James’s hand, she made a rapid glance of eye contact before darting off.  

With that, James purchased a suit, had a hearty meal and went to the print shop to “make him up a resume.”  He applied for every vacant position in the city, and was hired at the Midway Hotel as an elevator operator.

For four days he worked, standing in the corner and pressing buttons and contemplating his fortuity.  Was it a work of the Lord or was the world paying him back for its cruelty?

And on his fifth day on the job, James walked hurriedly to his workplace, donned in uniform.  He entered the hotel, signed in behind the front desk and checked the elevators to see if they needed maintenance.  Going up and down each of the three shafts, James was treated to three different views of the Chicago skyline as he approached the twelfth floor.  The sunrise was spectacular and nothing could defeat the moment of contentment for the saved man.

After greeting guests the entire morning, an old man on vacation, a business woman and young vocalist boarded the elevator and all four of their lives were changed.


Everyone
“I will alert the front desk of our malfunction, sir,” said James after the abrupt halt of the elevator.  He pressed the button on the panel and spoke a somber request for help.  

“Thank you, sir,” exclaimed Roger, “Can you please have someone tell my wife what’s happened?”

“I’ll do my best,” responded James.

“Hey, button-presser,” stated Julie, capturing James’s attention with her insult, “Listen, I had better be out of this damn elevator within twenty minutes or someone’s getting a lawsuit flung in their face.  Understand?”

“Ma’am, I’ll do the best I can…and nothing more,” replied James as kindly as possible after her offensive address.

Several minutes of silence followed, Roger anxiously twiddling his thumbs, Braden slouched over on the floor, mourning, Julie spreading papers onto the floor, James standing confidently at the doorway, awaiting their rescue.

And then came the foreign sound of conversation: “I’m Braden, by the way.”

“And I’m James,” responded James as he outstretched his hand to shake Braden’s.

“I’m Roger,” said the elderly man in corner.  

The three men turned towards Julie, who was on the floor, propped up by her elbows and thumbing through a six-inch stack of papers.  She looked up to their awkward gazes.

“It’s Julie, my name's Julie for Christ’s sake!”

“Nice to meet you,” stated Braden.

“No, kid, it’s not nice to meet you.  It’s too bad this elevator got stuck because otherwise, I would have got right on and got right back off and never said a word to you.  When that elevator door opens I’m running out of here like a bat out of hell.”  Infuriated, she returned to her work.

“Listen, Julie-The-Savior-of-the-World, I didn’t plan for this to happen,” retorted Braden, “I’ve got rehearsals in exactly two hours and have to take a shower beforehand.  And if I miss the rehearsal, I’ll be expelled from the Young Musicians Choir and my singing career will be over.  So just go back to work and keep your mouth shut.”

“You’d better apologize before I –” Julie was cut off by Roger.

“And my wife of fifty-eight years is a floor and a half away from me, during the likely last vacation we’ll spend together.  There’s no telling if she’s had a heart attack or if she’s is masturbating, but one-way-or-the-other, I want to be with her.  And if I have to spend another five minutes with you people I’ll tear my eyeballs out.  Now just shut your faces and God-willing, we’ll get out of this elevator.”

“Look, old man –” Julie was once again cut off.

“Why?” asked James desperately, gesturing with his hands at his companions.

“Why what?” snapped Braden.

“Why are you acting like this?  Nobody is going to miss a business meeting or singing practice and nobody’s wife is going die.  You guys have it all wrong.  Life ain’t about running from one place to another.”

“Well, why don’t you enlighten us, Oh-Great-Wise-One,” said Julie cynically.