Could It Get Any Worse

Juggling my keys and bags, I stepped onto the elevator. When I reached to press the ninth-floor button, the keys slipped from my grasp and fell neatly through the narrow space into the dark void known as the elevator shaft. I heard a squeaky gasp from the grey-haired lady beside me, and a quiet snort from her equally senior but more portly companion. The tall, incredibly well-built man in the corner remained silent. His blue eyes met mine, and his eyebrows ever so slightly lifted. I detected a slight tightening of his lips, no doubt holding back a guffaw at my plight.

The four of us looked at the offending space, and faintly, very faintly, we heard the clatter of keys against some unknown object far below.

The elevator doors closed.

No one said a word. The elevator ascended and when the doors opened, my companions went their separate ways.

I retraced my steps to the front desk with my story of woe. Retrieving my keys was relatively easy. Easy, that is, after forking over $250 for an elevator serviceman to root through the detritus at the bottom of the elevator shaft. At least he was sympathetic, “Don’t be embarrassed. I have to do this at least twice a week.”

I mumbled a thank you, grabbed the grimy keys and ran. My interview with a potential new client was here at the hotel. Although there had been plenty of time to get ready for the meeting, dropping the keys in the elevator shaft had not been part of my plan. Now, I was rushed.

I attempted to save time by applying mascara at the same time as brushing my teeth. That resulted in dropping the mascara brush on my white sweater. I had no alternative but to turn it inside out to wear under my suit jacket, hoping I wouldn’t have to take off the jacket during the meeting. To make matters more uncomfortable, my suit pants had shrunk at the dry cleaners. I managed to get them on but if the button popped, my muffin top would escape.

Finally ready, I raced to the meeting room, then realized I desperately needed a “nervous pee”. Rushing into the first washroom I saw, I slipped into a stall and sat down. Then I noticed the shoes in the next cubicle. Black, cap toe oxfords in a men’s size 13, at least. Had I seen urinals on the back wall of the washroom? I held my breath until the shoes exited, then quickly washed my hands and slunk back into the corridor.

Now I was late. I hate being late. At my knock on the meeting room door, a gruff voice called, “Come in.” I walked in to meet the potential client.

The man from the elevator.

His navy suit looked as good on him as had the casual jeans and sweater worn in the elevator. He stood as I walked into the room and gave me a quick once over with those steely blue eyes, then a faint smile crossed his face.

As I reached to shake his hand, the maps I had been carrying slipped and fell into a pile on the floor. So far, I’d lost keys down an elevator shaft, arrived late to a meeting, and dropped papers all over the floor. Could it get any worse?

Yes, it seemed, it could.

I gave a professional but warm smile. It froze when he pointed down at his shoes and asked, “Do these look familiar?”

Black, cap toe oxfords in a men’s size 13, at least.