I can hear “The Man with the Bag” playing upstairs. Better yet, I can feel it. It’s coming through the walls—shaking them—rattling the cuckoo clock and jittering all that Christmas crap my kids placed along the mantel. Hell, now I’m jittering. Maybe I’m the one who’s cuckoo. Oh, isn’t it great, Dad? Isn’t it so pretty? Don’t you wanna be festive?
No. No, I don’t. And I don’t want—
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
7 p.m. That was my cue. They started the music a little early but what’s the big hold-up if everyone’s so excited? Oh boy, oh goodie me it’s Christmas! Everybody loves Christmas, right? Even Chuck—the ol’ Scrooge. Can’t turn us down again, can he? Who cares if he’s more doped up than a hooker at a bachelorette party?
Pretty soon they’ll come and try to drag me up there but I’m not going, despite what Dr. Winfrey said. Said it would “help” me. Yeah, like that faux fireplace, Doc? Really doing the trick. I can feel the trauma draining through the floorboards. Gimme a break. “Exposure therapy” is about as useful as a one-legged tightrope walker. Sure, if you’re standing still it’s not so bad but go ahead… try to move.
That’s what I’ve been trying to do for the last two hours. Trying to move. Closest I’ve gotten to it was downing that beer my son left in the fridge on Thanksgiving. Thankful it was there. Gave me the liquid courage to try to put the pants on. I got one leg in before the feel of that cheap, red fabric between my fingers started it up again. I shook ‘em off. And if the pants were that bad, could you imagine the boots? The belt? The beard? Hell no.
“Everybody’s waitin’ for the man with the bag—”
Shut up Kay Starr. You and all the other pricks trying to get me up the—the—
“C’mon, you can say it, Chuck.”
“I know I can say it, Doc.”
“Then, do it.”
“The Kone MonoSpace 300 DX hydraulic elevator.”
“See? That wasn’t so bad. You rode it once before, didn’t ya?”
“No, I used the stairs.”
“Well, you walk by it every day I assume?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, see now that’s exposure! That’s progress, Charles. Pretty soon you’ll be able to press the button.”
“I am not pressing the button.”
“But suppose you did. What’d be the harm in it? You’re a rational man, Chuck.”
“It’s the same brand as—well, y’know.”
“Same make too. I read the articles. Although the 300 wasn’t around in the 90s.”
“But it’s hydraulic.”
“It’s hydraulic and safe, Charles. I visited Golden Gardens; the place is in tip-top shape. I rode the elevator all the way up to the top floor and back. It’s even got an inspection certificate in it. It passed just a few weeks ago.”
“The one at the mall had its stupid little diploma too.”
“And it would’ve operated completely normally if not for the—”
I know! I know! There was an electrical fire in the food court and they shut off the power to extinguish it but at the same time it shut off the elevators and instead of returning to the ground they shut down and got stuck between the second and third floors because the hydraulics weren’t backed up to a second battery because the stupid International Building Code wasn’t published until 1997 and it happened in 1992. Yes, I know. The elevator is not going to eat me, I know wearing a stupid Santa suit is not going to kill me but that’s why they’re called fucking phobias! They don’t make any goddam sense! That’s why I’m coming to you, but you just keep telling me all the same shit I’ve been hearing for the last thirty fuckin’ years, Doc!
Oh, great. Now they’re playing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”
No, he fuckin’ ain’t.
“But y’know the folks would love it. And who better to play Santa than Butler County’s finest?”
“I am not Butler County’s finest.”
“Humor me, Chuck. What’s the worst that could happen? Seriously?”
Oh, lemme tell you.
The worst will happen when you least expect it. Fortunately, now, I do. But back then, I was naïve. I was young. Murphy’s Law was little more than Murphy’s… Suggestion, and everything always had to happen for a reason. I suppose it does—come to think of it—but what I misunderstood then was that those so-called “reasons” were bunk. Meaningless. They’re often trivial things. Hell, we got penicillin ‘cause some moron let mold grow while he was on vacation and had the Archduke whatever-his-name-was’s driver not made a wrong turn, we’d’ve never had a World War One. But we did, and we have the penicillin, and we have God knows how much other stupid shit happen because somebody forgot to turn the stove off or, in my case, take the pot off the burner. I don’t blame Eddie Newton (the kid who forgot the pot) ‘cause I know he’s just one little cog in a far bigger machine, no more sacred than the Archduke’s driver. Hell, if there’s anyone I blame, it’s the stupid people who ordered mall-made Chinese food two weeks before Christmas. That oughta be a cardinal sin. As should be giving an elevator whose sensors clearly don’t work a pass on its annual inspection.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let me take you back to December 1992. There was a big ol’ nor’easter that was hittin’, well, the Northeast, and it caused such a stir that instead of flying south for the winter, all the birdies from New York (and some poor shmucks from Jersey) flew on over into Pennsylvania. And while most of ‘em stuck it out in the east, mostly around Philly, a couple of folks (couple thousand’s more like it) found their way to Butler County and, by extension, the Country Square Mall, owned and operated by the Simpson Holding Company which is not to be confused with the Simon Property Group, another real estate firm that still owns quite a few malls to this day.
I know all of this because unlike the Santa you might see at Macy’s (and if you haven’t, I suggest you watch Miracle on 34th Street), I was hired by the mall itself to play the jolly fat man. Apparently, according to the Macy’s “holiday coordinator” (whatever the hell that means), I didn’t “have the right gusto” for the position. When I clarified if that meant I wasn’t getting the job because I didn’t have a beard or a beer belly, the lady told me it was because I didn’t have the “holiday spirit” Macy’s was looking for.
Again, whatever the hell that means.
The Simpson Holding Company, on the other hand, welcomed me with semi-open arms, the only ones crossed during the whole ordeal being those of Marcus Neilstrom, the mall’s manager. Marcus was always a prissy little man, tightly wound like a jack-in-the-box to the point where everybody knew, at any moment, he might pop. But it was hard to tell with him, mostly because the man had the best damn poker face I have ever seen. Surely, if Marcus Neilstrom ever dabbled in Texas Hold ‘Em, he’d’ve been a millionaire. Unfortunately for him, though, he used his great gift as nothing more than a customer service façade on behalf of Simpson Holdings, and I followed suit. However, even despite the thick, white beard they gave me (which I can still taste to this day), I don’t know if I fooled half the kiddies that sat on my lap, not by a country mile compared to the way Marcus Neilstrom could fool their parents. Kids are a perceptive bunch, y’see. Most folks don’t give ‘em enough credit, but I do. I do now.
Take for instance this little fat kid that almost broke my femur, which I’ve since heard would’ve been one of the worst fits of pain a human can feel, even worse than childbirth. This kid was a close second even without the bone fracture. He plops down on my leg, and I try my damnedest not to holler as he turns to me. I know he can see my eyes watering up behind my phony glasses, but he doesn’t seem to care, at least not at first.
“What’s your name, young man?”
(For the life of me, I can’t remember what it was. I think it was Tommy… Tony… Terry… Your guess is as good as mine.)
“And have you been a good boy this year?”
At this point, I look over at the fatty’s mom and she nods to me feverishly as if her kid can’t use his words.
“Are you the real Santa?”
(Luckily, Simpson Holdings aka good ol’ Marcus Neilstrom had given me a crash course in Santa PR to cover Country Square’s ass. This question, among many, was one he told me “Always comes up”.)
“Well, the real Santa’s making all of the toys up at the North Pole as we speak, young man. I’m one of his helpers, but I’ve still got a bit of his magic.”
(The kid nods as if he expected as much.)
“That’s what the one at Macy’s said too.”
(I’m sure that guy’s got the same script, kid, I thought.)
“Well, Santa does have a lot of helpers, y’know.”
“I want a Super Nintendo.”
“That’s a popular one. I’ll put in a good word and see what the elves can whip up.”
“The elves are gonna make it?”
I chuckle. “Why, who else?”
“Nintendo.”
(I told you they’re perceptive.)
“Well, the elves work with Nintendo.”
“I thought Nintendo was in Japan.”
“Yes… it is.”
“Well, that ain’t the North Pole.”
(With the Santa gig, you’ve gotta be quick on your feet.)
“We send an elf to Japan every year to get the latest… Nintendo updates for all the toys.”
(Again, the kid nods and I’m thinking I’m out of the woods.)
“You said you have magic?”
“Of course, I do.”
“Then why do you need glasses?”
(To see your shoes ‘cause I know you can’t, you little twerp.)
“I use my magic for the good of children. Not for myself.”
(Saving me from another philosophical debate, Richard (the camera guy) asks the kid to look at the lens and smile. He snaps a shot and then calls “next”.)
“Merry Christmas, young man!”
(The kid waves, takes a candy cane, and waddles over to his mom. This process is then rinsed and repeated until the sun goes down, especially when your mall is filled with a bunch of people blown in by a nor’easter.)
I should point out that all of this—the whole Santa thing, with the camera and the peppermint sticks and the big, golden chair—all occurred on the second floor, with escalators to either side and elevators just behind the display. This arrangement gave the Santas easy access to the break room, which was on the third floor just off the elevator. It was only a matter of putting up the velvet rope that carried the “Santa Will Be Right Back” sign on it and moseying on behind the set. From there, it was a straight shot up the elevator and then out and to the left.
The break room was nothing fancy. In fact, this’ll tell you how bare bones the place was: when we got our first microwave (which was one of the old Sharp ones with the wind-up dials—not even buttons) we all lost our minds. This and a coffee maker? Since when was the Queen of England visiting Butler County? Roll out the French Silk creamer, why don’t ya?
Simpson Holdings (aka Marcus Neilstrom) spared no expense, except when it was at the actual expense of Simpson Holdings (or Marcus Neilstrom). If a stupid microwave oven shut us up for another holiday season, it was a lot easier to drive on down to Kmart than to give us all time and a half. Whatever else Simpson Holdings or Marcus Neilstrom felt the hard-earned dollar of the Country Square Mall ought to be spent on (other than a ninety-five-dollar microwave on a blue-light special) remains a mystery to me, with one notable exception.
I know damn well it wasn’t spent on the elevators. But, hey… piping hot Hot Pockets were nice, especially on days that dipped below fifty. Shifty would know.
Shifty—whose real name was something like George Scott (and who looked a helluvalot like the actor of his namesake)—was one of Country Square’s finest security guards, at least so we all thought. He had those “shifty eyes”, which is probably why he made a good security guard and half of the reason why he got the nickname. The other being that he was always on shift. I swear that poor guy must’ve been working sixty hours a week, which probably made him the richest poor bastard in the place. Talk about an oxymoron. It also made him eat a lot of Hot Pockets.
I can still see him in my mind’s eye, sitting in that corner booth of the breakroom, munching on a steaming meat pastry while Nat King Cole’s “Christmas Song” played carelessly through the speaker system. Every now and again, he’d look up at me mid-chew and then back down at his lunch. I suppose the sight of a sweaty minimum wage worker in a Santa suit probably wasn’t the most appetizing sight to see… but on occasion he’d grin and bear it, mostly to talk niceties like the weather or last night’s Penn State game. One day in particular, however, his tune was different.
“Neilstrom talk to you?”
I looked up from my ham sandwich and noticed that Shifty was staring at me blankly over his daily Hot Pocket. Steam rose from within.
“Uh… did he? No, he didn’t.”
Shifty nodded and then returned to his lunch without another word.
“Why? Did he have one of his ‘talks’ with you?”
Shifty nodded and gave an affirmative “mmhmm” through his closed lips as he chewed.
“What about?”
As if Shifty had been teeing up his shot, Marcus swiftly entered the breakroom holding a clipboard and springing over to me. In his stride, he turned his head hastily and nodded at Shifty before fixing his attention back onto me.
“How’s it goin’ out there, Mr. Neilstrom?”
“Hello, Charles. I have something I need to discuss with you.”
“The floor’s yours,” I said, and took another bite out of my sandwich.
“Do you know anything about the Super Soakers or the Super Nintendo?”
“I know they’re both super.”
Marcus makes a not-so-amused face. “Very funny, Charles. Let’s be serious, now.”
“Well, I know both of ‘em are sold at KB.”
“Anything else?”
“About the ones at KB or—?”
“The ones in the Santa sack. The ones we put out on display.”
“Is that what that is? A display?”
“It was KB’s idea, actually. A way for our Santas to push the hottest new toys. Simpson Holdings sure liked the idea. More people that come to the mall for their toys come to the mall.”
“Makes sense to me. What about ‘em?”
“They’re missing.”
“What? The ones from the bag?”
“Mmhmm. Both Super Soakers and the Nintendo. George, there, said he never saw anyone touch the bag… but then I thought maybe one of our Santas felt bad for one of the kids and might’ve—”
“Given ‘em away?”
“Precisely.”
“Wasn’t me. I’m not one for handouts. Did you ask Amberson?”
“Funny. Amberson said to ask you.”
“Of course he did. No, other than a few kids beggin’ their mommas for one or the other… I never touched the stupid bag. I thought it was some kinda donation thing.”
“It isn’t. And like you, Simpson Holdings isn’t in the business of ‘handouts’. I hope you would report anything you might see that’s… suspicious.”
“Of course,” I nodded, and returned to my sandwich. Marcus returned my gesture and began to leave the breakroom. At the door, he turned back to me over his shoulder.
“Oh, and we’re gonna need you down there in five. There’s a line building up.”
Mouth full, I nodded once more, and Marcus left the room.
“That’s what it was about,” Shifty said. I turned to him and noticed he had no more Hot Pocket left. With a silent nod, he rose from the booth and caught the door before it swung shut, leaving me alone with “The Christmas Waltz” blaring a little too loudly in my ears. Maybe it was because the breakroom was so cramped and reverberating.
That didn’t stop me from eating the rest of my sandwich, of course.
When I finished up, I scooted from the booth and grabbed the beard I had set beside me on the table and tugged it over my head. It smelled like ham (big surprise) and was still damp from my sweat.
As I pushed open the door and turned toward the elevators, I began to hear a sort of commotion coming from somewhere downstairs, the kind I’d so often hear when there was a fight, something went on sale, or when there was a fight because something went on sale. Black Friday comes to mind, and I’m sure it was many Black Fridays that made me desensitized to such a sound. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, as they say, but what they don’t tell you is that hindsight is farsighted. After the fact, you always look back at the past in a kind of blur. But it’s been thirty years for me now and in many ways thirty years ago couldn’t be any clearer.
I expected to hop onto the elevator and take it down to Two only to find Marcus Neilstrom waiting on the other side of the sliding door with some kind of news about there being a brawl over the Troll dolls on One, or that somebody had yacked on the escalator. I expected that maybe in that little clipboard of his that Marcus had a changed schedule and had kindly called Amberson in to relieve me. At the very least, I expected the goddam elevator to bring me twelve feet down to the second floor.
But like I said, the worst will happen when you least expect it. And so, it did.
I pressed 2 and then watched as the sliding door shut. As it had a million times before, the elevator had a slow start but eventually began its descent. I remember because there’s always that slight little stomach-dropping feeling you get just like you would in the drop tower ride at the carnival. It isn’t much, but slight, and I felt it.
The next thing I felt was that weightless feeling stopping. It was like someone had turned on the gravity on the moon or had slammed the brakes in a vertically oriented car. It nearly sent me to my knees, but I was young, and I caught myself against the wall. There were no handrails as some elevators have. In fact, the entire thing was pretty plain: all the walls were a silvery metallic color—almost so shiny that you could see your reflection in ‘em, there was an overhead florescent light and speaker (at the time playing God knows what because I was in a slight panic), and on the panel beside the sliding door was a row of three buttons for each floor, an emergency stop (as if I needed it), one to open the door, one to close it, one for the local fire department (which was red), and a bell. There was also the vacant LCD display (now powered off) where the floor number would’ve been, and the ever-so ironic certificate of inspection displayed proudly beside the panel and whose very presence there continues to mock me to this day. The whole thing was about five feet long and three feet wide, or three feet long and five feet wide (depending on where you stood in it). I know because I paced the fuckin’ thing for hours, measured it with my feet. It was a small, cramped little thing. Worse than the breakroom that’s for damn sure. Much worse.
There’re a lot of things we do that go on beneath the surface, subconsciously. It’s a type of autopilot that you only realize you had switched on when you switch it off. Ever pull up to a red light and wonder how you got there? Scary, isn’t it? Dr. Winfrey calls it “automaticity”. Says it’s a way for the body to “keep itself in homeostasis”, whatever that means.
Hopping on that elevator every day became so routine that sometimes I forgot I had even ridden it. I took it up to the breakroom once at the beginning of my shift to grab the suit, then I’d go back down to Two and work for a few hours, go back up for lunch, back down to work, back up to drop the suit off, and back down on my way out for the day. Sometimes this process would even get repeated if I needed more breaks during heavier volume days like the weekend.
That’s why, when the elevator stopped midway between Two and Three, autopilot snapped off and the realization that I was even in an elevator snapped on. Suddenly, and despite the trail of sweat from my neck to my ass crack, and from my forehead to my belly button, a chill shot through my spine and I stood as erect as one of those toy soldiers do at attention. Something was wrong.
There was a pretty loud song playing through the speaker system in the elevator, but I don’t remember what it was. Kind of like fishing through the crappy brown parts of your cereal to get to the marshmallows, I had listened through the holiday jingle (somehow) in order to hear the commotion beneath my feet.
Didn’t Dr. Seuss in “The Grinch” write something like “It started in low. Then it started to grow”? That’s what it was like. A kind of swelling sound. Low at first and then gradually rising in both volume and intensity. It was screaming. Mostly women but some men and children too.
Back then, there weren’t the scares of today. There were no mall “shooters”, no terrorists (that we knew of anyway). But that didn’t mean there weren’t—
“Fire!” That’s what I heard one voice cut through the commotion and holler, and then it all made sense. The screaming was because there was a fire, maybe on Two but probably on One in the food court, and the elevator had shut off because—
—because there was a fire. Beneath me.
And I was trapped in an elevator.
To say I panicked was one way you could put it. Another would be: Help! Help! Oh God! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph H. Christmas get me the hell outta here! Goddammit! I’m stuck in here! I’m in the elevator!
I think I pounded that silvery door with my bare palms until they turned red, then pressed every button and rang that bell enough times to put Quasimodo to shame. Nobody heard me, of course. Not only had the fire alarm gone off, but there was more high-pitched screaming than at a boy band concert, and more kids crying than the line to meet, well, me, dressed like Kris Kringle. All the while, that stupid Christmas music didn’t stop either, just to add insult to injury. And if I wasn’t insulted enough, something I had seen while clenching my eyes shut mid-pounding, something that hadn’t even consciously registered in my brain as I walked by it into the elevator returned to me. The sign. “IN CASE OF FIRE USE STAIRS”.
Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. But what do you do if you’re already in the elevator when the fire starts, huh? What then?
The icing on the cake was the fact that even if someone could hear me out there—over the screaming and the crying and the Bing fuckin’ Crosby—what could they even do about it? I was halfway between floors in a metal box, sealed shut.
A flush of relief washed over me when I heard the sirens. Oh, thank God, the fire department, I thought. Thank God, thank baby Jesus—
I was about to thank the shepherds and the wise men too when that flush of relief went right down the drain. How long is it gonna take before they know I’m up here? What if they can’t put out the fire? What if they can put it out but send everybody home before they bother to check on—?
Oh, shut up. Everything’ll be fine. They’re gonna put the stupid fire out and the elevator will return to the ground floor. That’s how they make these things, right?
Yeah, but if this thing was working correctly… wouldn’t it be on the ground floor now?
Hey, at least it didn’t fall.
And that was a good point. I didn’t fall. In fact, I then remembered something Marcus Neilstrom had told me during my first week. “This is a hydraulic elevator.”
“Oh. So, there’re no cables?”
“Some. But most of the lift happens because of pressurized oil in the hydraulic system.”
“Well, at least nothing can snap and send this puppy flying.”
“Unless the pressurized oil bursts.”
“Oh. Then in that case—?”
“It would… well, as you said, Charles… ‘send this puppy flying’. Straight down to One, in fact.”
Shit. Why’d I have to remember that part?
The chance of that happening is slim pickings, though. Actually, from what I know, elevator accidents are quite rare.
Except for those people that get crushed when they’re halfway off, or fall seventy feet, or get decapitated—
Rare. But not impossible. I doubt I’d be an exception, though.
Isn’t that what all those people say?
What people?
The ones that become statistics.
When I noticed that I was talking to my own reflection in the metal wall it felt like a slap in the face, a splash of cold water. It was sobering, really, before the laughter started.
Get a grip, man. It’s been five minutes.
But had it, though? Sure, it felt like five minutes but as they say, “time flies when you’re having fun”. It also flies in times of crisis and believe me, this was certainly one of those.
I no longer heard the screaming by this point but what I did hear was much worse: the music. It had never gone away in the first place but now I was just paying attention. I think—at this point—it was Perry Como’s “Frosty the Snowman” playing a little too loudly.
How’s it playing at all? I thought. Wouldn’t they have shut off the power by now? Or wouldn’t it already be off if I’m stuck up here?
That thought concerned me. I looked up at the tiny speaker and squinted, noticing now that the fluorescent light was no longer shining, replaced by a dim emergency light with a warm. orange-red tint. The LCD display above the button panel (which hadn’t been working since the elevator stopped) remained dark too, and again coldness surged through me.
Surely, the music’s on a different power supply is all. I highly doubt the ghosts of the Country Square Mall would take their precious time to play a disembodied recording of “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” just for me.
God, I wished I was home, come to think of it. There you could actually bother to stretch out, at least. You could rest your head knowing you were on solid ground and weren’t suspended three flights above concrete. And a fire.
My palms were sweating at the thought of that, not to mention it was starting to get hot, or at least hotter than it was before five—ten—God-knows-how-many minutes ago. Is there even air conditioning in elevators anyway? There has to be… ‘cause clearly, it ain’t working. Either that or—
The thought of the fire inexplicably growing just beneath my feet, licking the bottom of the elevator with a long, fiery tongue caused me to jump a little before realizing that wasn’t such a good idea. Last thing I wanna do is send this puppy flying.
I’m no expert but I’d have to imagine alongside breaking your femur or popping a kid out of your vag, falling or burning alive wouldn’t be far down the pain list, and falling and burning alive might very well be on top.
Breathe, dammit. It’s just a stupid elevator.
I decided to pop a squad (slowly and carefully, I might add) before rolling onto my back and staring up at the ceiling, the emergency light, and the speaker belching its endless supply of holiday horse pucky. Again, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself given the situation.
Oh, if these walls could talk, they’d be laughing too.
Or screaming, I chuckled. I swear if I die in here… dressed like Santa Claus… listening to Eartha Kitt—
“—forgot to mention one little thing… a ring. I don’t mean on the phone. Santa baby—”
“—so hurry down the chimney tonight.”
The chimney. That’s it. That’s what this is. I’m Santa Claus stuck in a big, ol’ chimney and if I don’t get my ass outta here I’m gonna be smoked like a turkey.
Oh, that’s ridiculous. I don’t even smell any—
Smoke. I smelled smoke, I swear it. It was the thick kind you might get a whiff of if you were out camping or puffing on a cigar. They hadn’t put out the fire, after all. It was still burning down there. It was rising. I could smell it, roasting the once intoxicating aroma of perfumes and colognes that always seemed to linger in big malls.
To this day—because of that very smell—I no longer smoke. In fact, I can’t so much as sit near a fire or damn-well look at it. The heat against my skin covers me in gooseflesh and sends me straight back into that elevator, back to 1992. It’s as if, even though that place is long, long gone, I’m still trapped in there. Up there.
Smoke only rises when something burns, I started to figure, so what’s on fire?
Well, according to the heat rising through the floor—and through the cheap, red fabric clutching my back—I’d say it was about to be me.
Quickly, I scrambled up onto my feet and began slamming the shiny metal door with my fists, then attempted to pry it open with every ounce of strength I could muster and repeated this process over and over again until I couldn’t anymore until I was either laughing manically to myself or screaming at the top of my lungs. For God’s sake, I’m still up here! Please! Somebody! I don’t wanna die in here! Eventually, my voice and my breath gave out and I nearly collapsed back onto the ground.
For the love of God don’t pass out, I told myself. That floor’s hot as sin, and I could feel it through my boots. Hell, if I was in there even for ten more minutes they might’ve melted straight onto the soles of my feet. And that’s if my internal organs didn’t cook in the meantime.
Is this how those poor bastards felt in the brazen bull? Like a—like a Hot Pocket? Yeah, that’s it. I’m no better off. Hell, I bet the microwave’s more spacious. Hell, I bet the Sharp Corporation wouldn’t fart out on me like this blasted elevator did. Hell, I—
Hell. That’s it. This elevator’s going straight down to the fire and brimstone. Forget the chimney, forget the flue—the hearth—we’re going straight into the inferno, that’s where. We’re going—
Down. I felt that stomach-dropping feeling again in full force. I was plummeting straight down. Is the elevator working again or am I falling? I thought. I’m falling, I thought, and then I checked the LCD.
2… 1… 0…
There isn’t a floor zero.
-1… -2…. -3…
Okay, I see what’s going on here. I’ve fallen asleep. Very funny, very cute but it’s time to wake up now. C’mon, Chuck… wake up… wake up…
I began slapping myself as the elevator beneath me—around me—continued to descend. Without warning—without so much as a flicker—the emergency light overhead snapped off and I was left in complete darkness. An abyss. All the while, the music grew increasingly louder, and the box grew increasingly hotter. If I elbowed a wall, I jumped back like a jackrabbit and swore like a sailor.
Is this thing getting smaller? I swear, it feels like the walls are closing in.
Oh, get a grip, man! It’s just claustrophobia!
Well, I’m surprised more people don’t have it here, considering how ass-to-ass all these stupid stores are!
-23… -24… -25…
Slapping didn’t work. I reached out, poking the sizzling metal wall a few times, and tried ringing the bell button.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
-57… -58…
Nothing.
Ding-ding-ding! Ding-ding-ding! Jingle-all-the-way! Oh, what fu-cking luck I have now open the goddam door! Open it!
-111… -112…
Maybe I’ll do what Scrooge did. Maybe I’ll just wake up in my bed chamber in my nightgown, that’s it! Now, what did he say to get there? Oh, yeah: “I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year!” There, I said it! Is that what you wanted to hear, huh? Is that it?
-356… -357…
Bullshit. That’s some bull! There aren’t negative three-hundred-and-fifty-seven floors to this godforsaken place there’re three. Three stupid floors! And I’m still stuck between two of ‘em. Prolly lying on my back and drooling like a baby.
-498… -499…
Okay, fine! I did it! There! Are you happy? I took the stupid Super Soakers and the Super Nintendo, alright? I’m a horrible Santa, alright? Y’think Simpson Holdings pays me enough to give my son a good Christmas? Do ya? Well, it doesn’t! This mall gives me jack shit!
At this point, the elevator started to slow down as it felt like the tears streaming down my face were evaporating off my skin either due to the heat or the sheer force of gravity.
-657… -658...
Oh, God. No, this isn’t real. This isn’t—this is one of those undigested bits of beef. One of those blots of mustard, isn’t it? More of gravy than grave. This elevator isn’t moving!
-664… -665…
“I’ll give the stupid presents back!” I shouted, going to smack the wall but stopping as the heat emitting off of it smacked back, right across the cheek. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m a bad Santa Claus! I’m a bad—”
Suddenly, the elevator jerked to a stop, and I fell to my knees. The floor beneath them stung like a wasp, even through the red pants. I sprang up and my eyes naturally darted over to the LCD (or at least the area where it was before). It was blank, and all about me was nothing but utter darkness.
Am I dead? I thought. I guess not. Still thinking, aren’t I? How’s that song go? “Santa Claus got stuck in my chimney… stuck in my chimney?” That’s it. I’m just stuck. I’m not dead, I’m just—
Then I saw the bright light and second-guessed myself. Until, at least, it started talking.
“Charles? Good Lord, Charles!”
In an instant, it was like every switch had flipped back on. Suddenly, I could see, hear, feel, and even smell again. The scent of smoke was nearly gone, and in its place was the familiar tinge of cheap bodily sprays that left their taste on your tongue. I could now feel my own body, too, and the floor beneath my feet. It wasn’t hot anymore. In fact, the air was now frigidly cold, punctuated by the hum of “Winter Wonderland” at its usual volume and pitch. Maybe it was also cold because I was soaking wet. What is this? Sweat? And who is that? Marcus?
The light before me began to shrink wrap around the shadows obscuring it. Finally, I could make out three figures looking back at me. The ghosts? I first thought. Well, if Marcus Neilstrom’s a ghost, then sure.
“Charles,” Marcus said, his face still not defined yet, “put this on.”
I outstretched my hands and immediately felt the softness of a woolen blanket being forced into them. Now I could see the man who had handed it to me. It was a firefighter.
“Now, cover yourself up. Geez, what’s that smell?”
“It’s uh,” the firefighter said, clearing his throat, “urine.”
“Oh, he pissed himself? Is that what that is?”
I could smell it too. It was piss. Is that what this is? I thought, feeling the wetness soak into the blanket. Then, as I could feel the wool touching my bare skin, a second question poked my brain. Am I naked?
Yes, I was. The wet Santa suit on the floor confirmed it.
“W-what happened? Where am I?”
“There was a small fire in the Chinese restaurant’s kitchen in the food court. You’re in the elevator… on level One.”
“And the fire’s out?”
“It’s been out, Charles. But we had to make sure the coast was clear before turning the power back on. We apologize it took as long as it did.”
“Yeah, no shit. How many hours does it take to turn the power on?”
Marcus’s face grew long before turning to the firefighters and then back to me. “Charles, it’s been about twenty minutes. These men were incredibly efficient.”
“Twenty minutes?” I croaked. “More like twenty hours. Hell, I’m prolly tied with that guy from New York.”
“Charles, I just saw you not twenty minutes ago. Remember, I needed you down on Two in five? That was at 11:55. It’s 12:14.”
“That’s impossible,” I said. “I must’ve heard ‘Santa Baby’ twenty times. And that song’s at least three minutes.”
“Sir, maybe it’s best we get you outta there and you can discuss this later,” the other firefighter said, and I agreed. In fact, I’ve agreed for the last thirty years. I’ve discussed it. No one’s bothered to listen. Not even Dr. Winfrey. I knew Marcus Neilstrom wouldn’t’ve from the very moment his shifty little eyes—even shiftier than Shifty’s—looked at those firefighters the way they did, and I knew the firefighters wouldn’t’ve from the way they looked back. Hell, it wasn’t even a shock to my system when Jay Leno got on The Tonight Show and riffed about me in his opening monologue a week or so after it happened.
“Did ya hear about this guy? This mall Santa in Pennsylvania that got himself stuck in the elevator? I guess that’s one way to get kids into your mall. ‘Hey, kids, if you wanna see Santa this year you’re gonna have to go on down to Country Square and shout up the elevator shaft!’”
Suffice it to say, Simpson Holdings didn’t like that one on public television. They also didn’t like the couple of Super Soakers and the Super Nintendo Marcus Neilstrom confiscated from my car.
All that to say, I was promptly fired.
“And I still imagine you harbor some resentment against them for that, don’t you, Chuck?”
“Wow. You really dig deep, Doc.”
“I’m just saying, Charles, it sounds like you’re still rattled by this thing all these years later.”
“I am.”
“And I’d imagine, deep down, you still might even be holding onto some of that guilt you felt after stealing those toys.”
“They got ‘em back. Didn’t press charges. Guess I can’t complain when my ‘punishment’ was gettin’ outta that dump.”
“But it almost sounds like your real punishment was what happened in that elevator.”
“It was.”
“I hope you don’t sincerely believe that. You had nothing to do with a faulty elevator and a kitchen fire, Chuck. That’s just an illusion of causality.”
“Illusion of what now?”
“Causality. It means that you’re wrongly assuming that each of these very distinct, very separate events had anything to do with one another.”
“Actually, they only had to do with one thing.”
“And what’s that?”
“That I was Santa.”
“And because you were Santa you were… what? Held to some higher standard?”
“I suppose. Really, I suppose it’s a lot like God.”
“God?”
“That if you wear his name in vain… tarnish his likeness… there’ll be judgment. Just like if you were a bad priest or a bad nun or somethin’. I was a bad Santa.”
I am a bad Santa. And I’ve gotta get this costume off before it’s—
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Mr. Freed? Mr. Freed? Charles? You in there.”
Just stay quiet. Maybe they’ll think I fell asleep. That wouldn’t be anything new for them.
“Mr. Freed, we’re all waiting for you upstairs… Mr. Claus.”
Yeah, I bet you’re waiting for me… you’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you?
“Chuck, are you trying to tell me that you’re gonna face some kinda judgment for dressing up like Santa at a mall thirty years ago?”
“Not ‘going to’ face judgment, Doc. I already am. I have been ever since I stepped foot into that elevator.”
“But that elevator’s gone, Chuck. The whole stinkin’ mall’s gone. Bulldozed. You got out. Got off.”
“That’s what scares me.”
“What does?”
“Which floor I got off on.”
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Mr. Freed? Charles? Sir, we’re gonna open the door if you don’t—”
“You open that door, and I’ll jump! You hear me? Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve fallen.”
“Charles, that window is sealed shut—”
I watch the knob jitter and listen as the white coat on the other side thuds against it with his shoulder. My bookshelf holds its own. Did they really think I read all those books?
“—did you—Charles, did you block the door? Nurse, call Dr. Winfrey.”
“I already talked to Dr. Winfrey.”
“And what’d he tell you, Mr. Freed?”
“Charles, Golden Gardens is a wonderful place. I’ve referred them many times to many clients.”
“Doesn’t matter where you send me, Doc. It’s all on the same floor. All in the same place.”
“And where’s that, Chuck? Back in the mall?”
“No. In Hell.”
Written by MakRalston
Content is available under CC BY-SA