freight elevator

The public elevators in this building are much like other public elevators. They're small and dimly lit, they've got mirrors on the back wall to hide away the idea that you're trapped in a small metal box, and they make an unintrusive "ding" sound right before they open. It's the freight elevator that I like.

The freight elevator is hidden around behind the others, closed off by a nondescript door. When you call it, you can hear the old machines groan to life behind the solid metal door that clanks open when the elevator arrives. It's lit by three bare florescent bulbs glowing behind wire cages that have begun to rust in place. If you look closely, you see a small hole in the corner of the ceiling, the pitch black of the elevator shaft peering in from behind the blades of a dull metal ventilation fan.

It shakes when it moves, it stutters to start and stop like some great weary beast of burden. It growls and complains as it secrets away janitors, dollies of plain brown packages and postal employees with electronic scanners, and smokers from the public eye. The walls inside are hung with heavy-duty black covers, patched with electrical tape and dotted with tears, to protect the surface beneath, but I'm not sure from what. Peeling back the shabby armor reveals graffiti, thin and worn scrawls in pen declaring past visitors. I added my name once, joining myself to the dozen or so who left their own traces. I imagine someone coming years later and seeing all the names in a different context, when the building is abandoned and broken down.