Cornered in an Elevator in Downtown Kalamazoo

I had finally reached my destination, the Downtown Radisson Hotel in Kalamazoo. I had traveled thirty-six hours from Sydney, Australia, and just wanted to check in and sleep.

My trip was uneventful, except for the plane changes in Sydney, Los Angeles, and Chicago before I got to Kalamazoo. I flew for thirty-six hours, give or take an hour or two.

At the front desk, I was checked in by a very pleasant clerk in a Midwestern American kind of way. He was fascinated by my accent and kept asking me to say something else. I patiently obliged in a friendly 'Aussie kind of way'.

He checked me in and directed me to the elevators at the back of the foyer.

Once inside, I smiled to myself. This was my first trip to Kalamazoo, and I had been upgraded to one of the top-floor suites, level 22. Not bad, for my first business trip, I thought.

The elevator stopped on the second level to let a large American lady in. She was very overweight, to the point where she had to walk with a stick. She waddled into the elevator, tightly clutching a plastic bag.

I took pity on her. "What floor, I mean level, would you like?" I asked, trying to be American.

"Level 6, thank you, sir," she replied with a deep Southern drawl.

I wondered how people let themselves get like this as the elevator took off. Maybe she had a medical condition.

From the elevator index, I realized that the second level was the dining room. It was 8:30 p.m. now, and she had obviously had dinner. It was the plastic bag full of snacks that caught my attention. "There’s my answer, "I thought. All those snacks aren't helping your cause, medical condition or not."

I turned my gaze to the blank wall. I didn't want to chat with a stranger.

At level 6, she stepped out after he had kindly held the door for her. It nearly slammed shut on her like a slice of ham between two pieces of bread.

“Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome,” I replied.

The doors closed with an almighty thump but reopened as quickly as they closed. A tall, thin man staggered in.

He wore denim jeans, a check shirt, and cowboy boots that had seen better days. Was he a local, or had he come from somewhere else?

His boots were big, and the buckle on his belt was as large as a small plate. So, I figured he might be from Texas, but he wasn’t wearing a cowboy hat.

I decided he didn't really care. All I wanted was to get to my room and sleep.

As the doors closed, the elevator filled with the smell of stale alcohol.

I looked across at the man propped up against the wall, swaying back and forth. Every so often, his knees buckled as if he were going to collapse. "Pissed as a fart," I thought to myself. "Texans can't hold their liquor."

He tried to speak, but no words came out. I did not dare to start a conversation or ask how he was. That was obvious. Not well!

We passed level 10. Only 12 more to go, but I then realized the man had not selected any level to get off.

“Not my problem,” I said to myself.

Then, without any warning, the man suddenly lurched forward and promptly threw up. The elevator was not big enough for me to retreat far enough to avoid the fountain of vomit from the man. It splattered all over my shoes and suitcase.

“What the hell? You’ve thrown up all over my suitcase and shoes.”

The man was paralytic and incapable of talking. His face held a vacant look dotted with bloodshot eyes. He couldn't talk even if he wanted to. I actually preferred it if he just kept his mouth shut. He had done enough damage when he opened it.

As the elevator stopped at level 22,

"No point in getting off now with all this mess over me. I sure as hell don't want to take it to my room."

I figured I could use some help with my shoes and suitcase, so I angrily pressed “L” to head back to the lobby.

By this stage, the man had collapsed on the floor. I was not going to deal with him alone. My conscience could not just leave him there.

When we reached the lobby, the doors opened. By chance, a hotel manager was there, ready to take the elevator.

As the doors opened, the carnage greeted him. By now, the lift was definitely not in a fit state for anyone to use.

"Oh my, what have you done to my elevator?" he asked, looking straight at me.

"Ask your friend in the corner," was my reply. "Now, what about my shoes and case?"

Till next time,

Calvin

[Author's note: I am on a quest, following in the footsteps of the great and inspirational Mikydred, to write for each vocal community. This is my first story for Wander, and number 18 of the 48 communities.

While this may seem like fiction, it happened to me on one of my first business trips to the US.]