Going to Hell

I haven't been writing much. Lazy and distracted.

On Black Friday, I worked for Macy's. My assignment: operate the frieght elevator. I got pretty excited about that, because other assignments for the eight person crew involved being out on the floor with customers. Yikes. The job was fun, but hardly a full eight hour job, so I occupied my time with hanging empty clothes hangers (a whole wall of them), sweeping the floor, breaking down boxes and smashing them in the compactor and running packages to "Will Call". At the end of the day I folded sweaters in the Men's Department and helped a gentleman decide on the proper size of a black leather jacket for himself. Oh, my MBA!!

The experience of running the elevator brought a story to mind. Here it is. I hope you enjoy it.

Going to Hell by Valerie Perez, Author of the Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin.

With high school behind me and no concrete plans ahead, I applied for a job at the old Brennan Hotel on South Broadway, the last kosher hotel in Saratoga Springs. Raised Baptist, I knew little about Jewish laws and traditions other than the two kids who vied for valedictorian in my graduating class were Jewish and they generally missed a day or two from school in September for something called Yom Kippur. My official title was bellhop, an unusual career selection for a young woman even if it was the summer of 1972. My duties included the operations of a vertical transport system.

The museum piece elevator traveled between three floors and the basement, where, “You have no need to go,” the equally ancient hotel owner informed me on my first day. Operations were simple. After closing the door and rusty accordion gate across the threshold I engaged the handle on a small pedestal to the left of the entrance. The handle served as the throttle, but required an operator to be sufficiently skilled to compensate for Newton’s Laws of gravity and motion. Going up with several passengers required more energy and the elevator’s glide diminished. Coming down, just the opposite.

To achieve the proper flush position, I assessed the weight of my load, and estimated the power needed to come as close to the floor as possible without jogging the car into place. Before opening the door, I directed the passengers to watch their step.

“Whatever you do, don’t bounce the guests,” the owner advised. He occasional rode the elevator, testing my skills and critiquing the three inch step I usually left. “Our guests are old. They can’t see the step.” He said shaking his head at the rookie operator.

One of the seasonal hotel guests, Mrs. Shapiro usually sat on the front porch in the evenings to watch traffic parade down Broadway. She’d ask me to fetch a cup of tea with cream. For this and a few extra errands I ran for her, she tipped me a quarter at the end of each week.

The first time she asked, I headed into the kitchen through the swinging double doors. There a cook, who looked like a stewed prune confronted the intruder. She wielded a metal ladle like an independent appendage. “Mrs. Shapiro would like some tea with cream.” I sprouted as I ducked to avoid the flying spoon.

“You shouldn’t be here.” The old woman scolded. She added “And always enter on the right, never the left.” Puzzled, I articulated my best high school graduate, “Huh?”

“The door. The door. Going out, a waiter carrying a large tray of dishes uses the left side. You entered the kitchen on the left. And look through the window. Otherwise, boom.” She cracked the metal spoon against one of the sink basins. I jumped. She pointed to a stool with her spoon and instructed, “Sit. I will prepare the Shapiro woman’s tea.”

The late evening sun streamed through the back stoop door and glistened on the pots that hung from the overhead racks. I wandered into a place I knew nothing about—a kosher kitchen. Stacks and stacks of dishes lined the opposite walls. There was more kitchenware there than found at a Williams-Sonoma store.

No matter what time of day or night I went into the kitchen for Mrs. Shapiro tea and cream, I ran to the cook and sat on my stool while she prepared it. And at the end of every week, Mrs. Shapiro gave me a quarter.

But one night the cook wasn’t there. I prepared the tea. When I came out of the swinging double doors into the dining hall, the owner swooped down on me like a hawk on a field mouse, snatched the tray and asked, “Where did you get the dishes?” Before I answered, he disappeared into the kitchen. Dazed I stood in the middle of the empty hall watching the doors slowly rock back and forth on their hinges.

The elevator bell summoned me back to duty.

I motored to a perfect landing on the third floor. Mr. Shapiro, teetered on the heels of his wing tips, a wrinkled little man with three wisps of hair glued to his Charlie Brown head with a few too many shakes from the Vitalis bottle.

“Your wife is waiting for her tea on the porch,” I informed him with a smile.

He stepped into the elevator. “Do you like the boys?” he asked. As I snapped the gate shut he groped for my breasts. Catching me off guard, he managed a good squeeze before I swiped away his hand. “Have you ever been kissed?” He lunged forward swimming in the stale smell of alcohol. I bucked the elevator down to the second floor and he tumbled to the back wall.

“Keep your hands off me.” I growled, startled by my own deep voice. He was a freaking old man. Older than my father. Hell, he looked older than my grandfather.

I ran the elevator into the basement. Shit. I opened the door anyway and let Mr. Shapiro stumble into the dungeon. The humid smell of stale earth that hadn’t seen day light since 1848 drifted into the cab. Mr. Shapiro froze in the dim shaft of light from the elevator.

Do Jews believe in Hell? I don’t know, but for a moment I thought that’s where I took him. He whirled on his wingtips, tripping back into the elevator. I let him fall. I thrust the lever forward and listened to the motors haul the elevator from the darken depths. I left nearly a foot ledge to the first floor when I opened the gate. “Watch your step,” I warned.

I never told anyone, fearing the repercussions for taking the elevator into the basement. Mrs. Shapiro’s weekly tips became a dollar, and whenever I went into the kitchen I cared less from where I got the dishes.


Bad, bad Karma. I've asked my Lord to forgive me for that one.