I’ve never had much of a problem with elevators, personally. Never been stuck in one when it’s broken down, never had to cram inside one with a dozen other people and never had my ears pop or stomach drop when riding one down to the reception of a twenty floor hotel.
But I’m a writer, so I’ve used my imagination.
I have a reputation for being rather stoic in times of crisis. It’s not something I’ve practised in the mirror or played out inside my head often enough it’s become second nature, it’s a trait I’ve likely inherited from my father. I’ve seen him stand in front of screaming wankers and not bat an eye, so it seems I’ve picked up the ability to look stress in the face and wait for it to calm down before reacting. It’s a skill that helped a lot when working with dementia patients.
I’ve been in a few situations where I’ve had the chance to panic now, and luckily I’ve turned out to be the kind of person who finds it very hard to lose their head. In a broken down elevator, I can only hope for that same coolness under pressure to come to my aid.
With a stranger though? Well, that may be my downfall. I’m not very good with people, or conversing with them unless they give me five minutes to write down what I want to say and then read that instead. Unfortunately we live in a world were verbal communicating is still very much prefered and so I’m awkward as hell.
If this stranger was a sensible sort I’d probably be able to get away with a shrug and a ‘what are you gonna do’ type expression until help arrived. If it was someone with claustrophobia and a penchant for drama, then emergency services would probably find me trying to climb the cables to escape the scary human being in the broken hanging box.
Thinking about it, perhaps I should just stick to the stairs from now on.