Published Fall 2006
 
Elevator Man
The name of the elevator man
could have been Jerry or Jimmy,
but mostly he was the elevator man,
working the lever five floors up
and five floors down. Shrinks, realtors,
dentists and secretaries, all asking
the usual questions (Rough winter,
huh?) It takes a lot of stamina
being the elevator man.
I was the lawyer's brat.
Hey Jerry, I'd ask, how come
this elevator's got no buttons?
Hey Jim, please please
make it stop between the floors?
I liked the accordion gate, the cigar smell,
the game-show noise of the buzzer I leaned on
'til he hovered up the shaft
like a pissed-off ghost from his grave.
When the elevator man died of
who-knows-what, some temps shuffled through
for a month, even a year each,
but couldn't hack it.
It takes a certain disposition
to work all day in a box.
But then Brian got the job.
Brian was my classmate, just dropped-out
of high school. He was that kid
with the crooked neck and glasses,
and everyone said he loved
the retarded girl. One afternoon,
walking from my father's office,
I saw him there—fenced behind
the elevator gate, like a sad monument
in some pigeon-filled park.
But I couldn't ride with him. At least
not with the look he gave me,
like I was about to ask him
to hold my coat, or tie my shoes,
or carry me downstairs on his shoulders
while he whistled muzak.
And just as I tried to lighten the mood,
to say Brian, I've always wondered
can this thing stop between the floors?
he pulled the lever down
and dropped to the basement,
as if to tell me, look how far
it is between us. As if to say
what Jerry could never say: No.
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