Elevator Stories
29th Floor. ’Bing’ the pre-war elevator doors pushed open and a heavy cloud of powdery soapiness announced Mrs. Bigsby. Mrs. Bigsby used to be Mrs. Harrington. The Harrington. The grand dame of theatre. Word on the street was she killed her third husband, poisoned him with tetrodotoxin. A rare poison generally found in marine animals like puffer fish and octopus in Taiwan, Japan, and Southeast Asia. She was also the closest thing I had to family in the city.
“Where were you last night? You look like a wet rat.” She tawked like a real New Yawker with a whiff of Hungarian like the second note of a perfume.
“Don’t ya tell me you been shackin’ up with that mid-life-crisis actor in 2B again, what’s his name, Mark?”
“Mac.” I said, defeated, too tired to lie.
“That’s right. I can never remember because what kinda name is Mac? Reminds me of Mac and Cheese and that’s food, not a person, well it’s not food per se, please tell me you’ve eaten today. Cup noodles don’t count.”
My stomach growled. She rummaged in her bottomless Mary Poppins bag. There was always a surprise inside, kind of like a Happy Meal. She handed me a muffin wrapped in cellophane. It made me feel like a kid again, physically and emotionally cared for, not solely responsible for my survival.
“Banana oat. No gluten, no bullshit. From downstairs, they make ‘em fresh every mornin’. Not like the dry ones on 54th street.” Then it blurted out of me: “He cheated on me again.”
“What else is new? The sun burns, nicotine kills, shit stinks. He’s a man. That’s what men do. That’s why I swore ‘em off for good when Harvey kicked the bucket. And guess what? The last 30 years of my life have been pure bliss. Sure, I haven’t had sex since the 80’s but food’s like sex if you do it right. Better actually considering most men can’t even find the clit.”
She pushed a wet streak of hair out of my face. Her fingers reeked like nicotine. It reminded me of the magic touch of my mother. She moved with equal softness. A direct contrast to her hard shell. I always wondered how she didn’t schlepp herself more considering the heavy silver rings, bangles and chains going clack, clack, clack. She must have read my mind because she added:
“Don’t ya worry. The elevator weight limit is 2100 pounds.”
I forced a smile. “I don’t now what to do.”
A tear rolled down my cheek as Mrs. Bigsby hugged and enveloped me in her soapy scent.
‘Bing!’ The elevator doors opened to chaos in the lobby. Police swarmed around like roaches, interviewing other residents, and in the middle – a body bag. Rodriguez, the janitor, rushed toward us. A cocktail of shock, alarm, and fear washed over his face.
‘It’s Mac Benson. In 2B. He’s dead!’