Yeah, this happens all the time, honestly. This building especially — the lift's been dodgy since I moved in. Not this bad usually, but dodgy. Like that vending machine on the third floor that eats your coins at 3am and just hums at you. Same energy. Someone probably knows exactly what's wrong with this thing and just hasn't fixed it.
Have you pressed the alarm button yet or just the call one?
I pressed the call button because it makes you feel like you’re doing something. The alarm is for emergencies, and honestly, stuck in a lift isn’t an emergency, it’s just Tuesday. I spent three hours last week untangling the treadmill belt at work; my fingers are still numb. I’m not going to scream into a speaker box waiting for a response. It’s quiet up here. Peaceful, even. I can hear the hum of the cables. It’s almost soothing if you ignore the fact that we’re suspended in a metal box.
It's Tuesday, sure, but it's also today, which is 3pm hot and this box has no vents I can see. How's your phone signal — one bar, none? And is there a floor number lit up on the panel or did it die too? I want to know if we're between two and three or stuck on six.
Signal’s dead. Zero bars. The panel’s dark, which is arguably worse than if it were blinking. That means I have no idea where we are. Could be the basement, could be the roof. I’m sweating through my shirt, and not in a good way. My boss sent three emails while we were stuck in traffic last month; I think I’ll keep my phone off. Less noise. Though the heat is starting to make the air feel thick, like breathing soup.
Soup, right, that's exactly it. Okay — dark panel's fine actually, means it's not resetting or moving, so we're just parked. Take your jacket off if you've got one, sit if there's room. I'm going to bang on the door twice, just to make noise, not because I think anyone's out there yet. You good on water, anything?
I don’t have water. My suitcase is on the floor, and I refused to check it because the hotel guy looked at me like I was smuggling contraband. There’s a half-eaten protein bar in my pocket. It’s basically gravel now. Don’t bang on the door, Ivo. It’s not going to help. The vibration might loosen a cable, or it might just make the motor whine louder. Sit down if you want, but keep your voice down. I’m trying to remember if I left the stove on. It’s a stupid thought, but the heat is melting my brain.
Stove's off, you'd smell gas before you'd smell soup, that's not a real thing your brain's doing. Fine, no banging. Sit then. Hotel guy sounds like a prick anyway — gravel bar's fine, split it if you want, I'm not hungry. How many floors does this building even have, do you know, top to bottom?
I stopped counting after twelve. Or was it thirteen? The stairs in the emergency exit were narrow and smelled like old urine, so I took the lift. That was the mistake. Now here we are. The gravel bar is yours if you want it, though it might have survived in the heat. I’m fine. Really. It’s just a matter of time. People are doing other things. They have places to be. I have this box. It’s not the worst place to think. You’re overthinking, Ivo. Sit. Breathe. The heat is temporary.
Twelve or thirteen's fine, that's a lot of building for someone to notice a stuck lift, that's good actually. Keep the bar, you need it more than me. I'm sitting — see, sat. Not overthinking, just like knowing things. Twelve floors, no water, dead signal, that's just the situation, not a feeling about it. You're doing the breathing thing yourself, by the way. Just so you know.
I’m not breathing any harder than usual. It’s just the humidity. You’re sitting, good. The floor is cold. Or warm. Hard to tell. I’ll take the bar. Don’t want you passing out and waking me up with snoring. It’s better if we’re both quiet. Less oxygen used. I’m thinking about that treadmill again. The smell of rubber. I hate that building. I hate that I work there. You’re doing the looking-thing, Ivo. Stop. It makes the air feel thinner. Just sit there. Let the heat happen. It’s just physics. We’re fine.
Fine, I'll stop looking. What is it you actually do there, the treadmill place — never said properly, just said it's awful. Give me something else to think about that isn't oxygen math, because that's not real either, this box isn't sealed, there's a gap under the door, we're not gonna suffocate over a stuck lift on floor whatever.
I make spreadsheets for warehouses that don’t exist. Data entry. I stare at cells until my eyes bleed. It’s exactly what you’d expect from someone who enjoys this box. Ivo, stop analyzing the gap under the door. It’s a draft, not a ventilation system. I’m hungry now. The protein bar is sitting in my hand like a brick. I wonder if the vending machine on the third floor still hums. I bet it does. It’s probably judging us. Right now, on the third floor, probably.
It's absolutely judging us. Smug little hum, eating someone's coins right now while we sit here doing maths on air. Eat the brick, honestly, it'll help more than the gap-under-the-door theory. How long's it actually been — you got a watch, not your phone, an actual watch? I want a number that isn't "a while," it's driving me a bit mental not knowing.
I don’t wear a watch. Too much maintenance. Winding, adjusting for seasons I don’t care about. I have a mechanical thing from my uncle, but it’s in the suitcase. The one I didn’t check in. So, no number. Just the heat. And the humming. It’s louder now. Or maybe my ears are ringing. Ivo, stop tapping your foot. The vibration is annoying me. I’m fine. Truly. We’ll be let out when they decide we’re worth the energy. It’s not personal. It’s just bureaucracy with a cable.
Didn't realise I was tapping. Sorry. Stopping. You're right, it's not personal, someone's on a clipboard somewhere with our lift on a list, we're not special. I just don't love not knowing where the list is or how long it is. That's all. Not panicking. Just — I like numbers. Numbers are calming. This has none. That's the annoying part.
Numbers are a crutch. You’re trying to measure the unmeasurable. It’s cute, in a desperate sort of way. I used to track my steps. Ten thousand a day. Didn’t change anything. Just got tired. The heat is getting to me, actually. I’m sweating through my shirt again. This fabric is cheap. I should have bought better. For the office, I mean. Not for the lift. But the lift is where I am now. So I guess it matters. I hope the clipboard guy has a pen. I hate running out of ink.
Take your shirt off if it's that bad, nobody's judging, I won't look, or use it to fan yourself. Actually — do you have paper in that suitcase, boarding pass, anything flat? Fan yourself with that instead of talking about ink. You're going a bit sideways, Marc. Sit forward, hands on knees, small breaths. Not because it's an emergency. Just because it helps.
I’m not going sideways. I’m sitting still. The shirt stays on. It’s not that bad. You’re being dramatic about the fabric. And I’m not fanning myself with paper; I don’t have any. The suitcase is locked. My keys are in my pocket. Which is in the suitcase. So that’s a problem for later. I’m fine. Really. Just hot. It’s just heat. Like a sauna, but with less dignity and more hum. Stop telling me to breathe. I’m breathing. Hard. That’s what breathing is.
Keys in the suitcase in your pocket, okay, don't think about that one, that's a puzzle for later, you said it yourself. Forget breathing then, don't breathe how I say, breathe however. Just talk to me instead — tell me something dumb, not about the lift, not about work. Anything. Give my brain something that isn't hum and heat for a second.
There’s a gull in my office. No, not real. A plastic one on a shelf. I named it Steve. I talk to Steve when the spreadsheets get too loud. He’s very good at listening. Once, I tried to teach him to tip his hat. He didn’t learn. It’s pathetic, really. But better than listening to the hum. Ivo, stop looking at me like I’m crazy. I’m not. I’m just tired. Steve doesn’t mind the heat. He’s plastic. I wish I were plastic. At least plastic doesn’t sweat.