An elevator stuck in my life

My office is in the McGraw Hill Building at Rockefeller Center in New York. One Friday night, I was working overtime, leaving the building halfway to smoke a cigarette, then walking back into the building, past the guy who was wiping the marble floor, walked into the elevator, and pressed the button on the 43rd floor.

　　As the elevator went up, I felt a shake and the lights dimmed for a moment. After a while, I realized the elevator had stopped and rang the emergency bell. I was furious because my deadline was approaching. I was the publishing manager for BusinessWeek magazine at the time and had to get the magazine out on time. I expected someone to respond, but no one. So I pressed the button again. I wanted to shout out, but felt a little embarrassed. I didn't want to make a fuss, so I just let the bell ring and waited.

　　But there was still no one. It was the weekend, few people were still working, and there were 32 elevators in the building. What if no one found me until Monday morning? I tried to shake off this thought, but as the alarm bells kept ringing and the longer no one answered, the more lingering images of dead elevators lingered in my mind.

　　I started to pry the door to see if I could get out. But when I pulled the elevator door open, all I saw was the concrete wall - the wall of the elevator shaft. This only made my sense of being trapped and frustrated even stronger. I climbed up the inner wall of the elevator, intending to knock on the trapdoor in the ceiling. I knew it would be dangerous to leave the elevator, but I couldn't care less. However, the trapdoor was locked.

　　I lay on the floor, utterly desperate. The thought of dying slowly consumed me. I had only a few cigarettes left, and nothing to eat or drink. I tried to sleep. As I turned to lie on my side, I noticed scattered fingernails, skin scraps, and hair on the elevator carpet. I thought it was strange how people could shake so much off in such a short time on the elevator. I made up my mind to myself that if I could finally escape the elevator, I would definitely take a day or two off and enjoy it.

　　Hours passed. Then there were longer hours. I had lost all sense of time. Suddenly, a voice came over the walkie-talkie: "Is anyone in there?" I jumped up and shouted, "Damn it, get me out of here." Forty minutes later, without warning at all, I felt a gust of air, and at the same time the elevator began to move. The elevator doors opened and I jumped out of the elevator like a cork. I asked the elevator mechanic for the time. "4pm," he said, "Sunday." I was in the elevator for 41 hours.

　　The next morning, reporters surrounded my apartment. Every word I said appeared in the newspapers. The head of PR at BusinessWeek asked me if I wanted to stay in a hotel until the storm subsided. Then, inevitably, lawyers started calling me, throwing out number after number. Someone claimed to be able to get $25 million in punitive damages and advised me not to work. So I stopped working and started this dream life. I lost my job, but started thinking about buying a 2 million, $3 million apartment.

　　I signed a contract with one of the lawyers. In 2004, five years after the elevator failure, we went to court. I didn't like the feeling of being on the witness stand - very scared inside. I had no money, no job, no future, and was all counting on a huge payout. In the end, we settled out of court. I can't reveal the amount, but it was a decent amount of money. I got six figures.

　　All living life is afraid of getting into trouble. In that elevator, I was really terrified. But I made the mistake of climbing out and prolonging my time trapped. My life used to be in good shape until I started seeking huge payouts, which ruined everything. I don't have a job and I've never been married. I walked into the elevator and lived one life, and when I walked out, I stepped into a very different life. But it wasn't the elevator that ruined my life, it was me.