The Last Trip

No one understands how I get myself into these situations, least of all me.

I moved out of my downtown apartment last Friday, in preparation for a move to the Upper West Side, one of my favorite neighborhoods in the Manhattan.  My former apartment is by the Freedom Tower, which stands across from the 9/11 Memorial.  At any moment there are dozens of cops, bomb sniffing dogs and surveillance cameras.  It is also right next to Trinity Boxing Club, where I belonged for three months last winter.  I am friends with most of the trainers.  After recently seeing both White House Down and Olympus has Fallen, I’d argue that my old ‘hood is safer than the 1600 Block on Pennsylvania Avenue.

The apartment building, while nice, is kinda boot-leg.  The elevator goes out of service frequently and holding it open with any kind of object increases that frequency.  I have about 25 boxes and bags to put in storage before I move into my new apartment next month. I give myself 45 seconds to shove as many things on as possible when the elevator doors open.  It takes me as long to unload in the lobby.  I finish my move in three trips.  Yes, I am also quite impressed with myself.

The last trip.

I get all the way down to the lobby and there’s a man waiting for the elevator.  He’s tall, maybe 6”2, well dressed, athletic with dark hair and tanned olive skin. Though he is Caucasian, he has a foreign accent that I can’t quite place.  I soon discover that his accent is from the deepest pits of hell and that he is actually Satan.

I try to rush my boxes out of the elevator (whose doors I cannot prop open).  He stands over me as I shift my boxes across the threshold.

Lucifer: Why are you using this elevator to move?  Can you read?  Don’t you see the sign that says ‘You must use the service elevator for moves’ and you cannot hold the door open?

LG:  Not that it’s any of your business but the service elevator doesn’t go to the 11^th floor.  I’m not propping the door open.  This is gonna happen, so just get out of my way so I can finish.

This incites him.  I can see a physical change in his demeanor.  It’s aggressive.  He begins to berate me, swearing and insulting me, getting louder with each breath.  Clearly, I am no shrinking violet, but I am also thrown off guard by the situation.  He pushes past me onto the elevator while I still have a few things left, trying to hijack it along with half of my belongings.  Adrenaline fills my veins like an animated figure in a cartoon.  I block the elevator door with my leg (all the while unloading the last of my things).  This further infuriates him.  I see ripples of violence wash over his face, like a scene from a sci-fi show.  He takes a step back as if to wind his leg.  I brace myself thinking he’s going to kick me.  He kicks a hole in my box instead, screaming obscenities at me.

I.  Lose.  My.  Shit. 

I attack him.  Hard.  I push him against the elevator wall and punch him.   This catches him completely off guard.  I am afraid he is going to take a swing at me but he doesn’t.  I grab the last over-sized box, keeping it between the two of us.  He stays in place and I light the elevator up like Will Ferrell in Elf, pressing every floor until the eighth floor, his floor. 

“Enjoy your ride up, asshole,” I say in the most deadpan voice I can muster.  It’s over.  I start to process the most bizarre few minutes of my entire time in Manhattan.  How is this happening on my last day in the City?  Was this assault?  In what version does he relive or retell the story about what just went down and feel good about himself?      

Before I can organize my thoughts, he comes running down the stairs charging at me.  My heart races.  I am terrified.  He stops inches in front of my face. 

Lucifer:  I’m going to call the cops, you dumb… (I’ll let you use your imagination).  There are rules in this building and you cannot hold the elevator open whenever you feel like.  You’re going to pay for this.

Here’s what courses through my head in the first five seconds:  

I punched this man.  Why can’t I ever let anything go?  The elevator police are coming to get me and throw me into a paddy wagon with prostitutes and drunkards.  I’m too pretty to go to jail.  Someone’s going to try to scalp me for my hair.  Or take my face off.  Jealous bitches.  The pigs will never take me alive.

The sixth second:

I am a woman.  I am alone in a small, confined space with a man who is twice my size.  OK, fine.  He isn’t actually twice my size, but he easily has 40 pounds on me.  I am bullied; my property damaged; my physical safety questioned.

“Get the police,” I snap. 

I leave the apartment building, relieved to be out of danger.  I go next door to let my crew of burly boxers in on the situation.  I am not alone.  They flank me incase he comes back without the police.  It’s just like Michael Jackson’s video, Beat It.*  A choreographed street fight is about to go down.

Lucifer comes back with one of New York’s finest.  I show the Officer my Military Reserve ID to let him know that I’m a veteran and not bat-shit-crazy (shhh… this can be our little secret).  I recount the events shaking, my voice trembling and too aggressive for the police who repeatedly ask me to calm down.  As if.

Naturally, he was at fault.  I could have pressed charges for destruction of property, but ain’t nobody got time for that.  He gets a warning that if he does something like this again, he will go to jail.  I go back up to the 11^th floor to do a final walk through of my apartment.  I see my forgotten cane upstairs (I broke my foot earlier this year).  I grab it like a lost relic, clinging to it for safety.    

I am on the 11^th floor.  When the elevator door opens, he is there.  I know he lives on the 8^th floor.  Is he waiting for me?  Is he trying to hurt me?  Will he follow me off the elevator if I get out?  I lift my cane like a baseball bat. 

LG:  If you come near me, I will destroy you.

Clearly, I watch too many action pictures.  He takes a step back and begins to insult me again.  I keep my cane raised and draw it back.  He gets off on the eighth floor, but holds the door open with his hand continuing to taunt me.  Then he presses every button until the lobby, laughs and tells me to enjoy my ride down.    

When he moves, I get off after him and take the stairs the rest of the way down.  He follows me into the staircase.  I turn and threaten him again.  He stands inside the doorway of the staircase, yelling behind me until I’m out of sight.  I am terrified and run as fast as I can down the eight flights.  I never see him again.

I’m on a plane to Tanzania now, completely moved out of my apartment, technically homeless until my new apartment is ready next month.  I think about the last seven months of my experience in Manhattan; ordinary nights on the couch, salacious stories never to be told - all culminating in an adrenaline-laced rollercoaster.  I’m full of anticipation for the adventure that awaits me the moment I get off the plane.  I hope it is every bit as exciting and only a fraction as scary.  But knowing me, I’d ask you, my readers, if you receive an email from an African War Lord requesting money for my release from captivity, it’s probably safe to assume that it’s not a phishing scam.  Go ahead and send the money.  I’ll pay you back.    

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6B2wtC91_0U