Elevator

 

Elevator

We were fighting a war in a distant part of the world.  So far as I could see, the war didn’t affect most people.  Planes landed and departed, more or less, on time.  Grocery stores were well-stocked and their shelves were full.  Sometimes, when I traveled, I encountered soldiers.  When the soldiers were in groups, they seemed jovial and cocky, talking loudly and pretending to bully when another.  But, when you saw them alone, dragging big khaki-colored canvas bags through the jetways, the young men and women looked distraught – they sat by themselves in the waiting areas, staring off into the distance or nervously fingering their cell-phones.

This happened a number of years ago, but I remember things vividly. 

The concourse leading to my flight ended in large waiting area with seats bolted to the floors in front of the gates.  TV screens were mounted over the passengers gathered there.  A food court with a Chinese restaurant, a taco place, and some convenience counters peddling bottled drinks and potato chips as well as paperbacks and magazines made a half-circle around where people were waiting for their flights.  I was traveling on a small regional jet – I can’t remember my destination.  A passenger van was pulled up to a gate on the tarmac where the larger planes were being loaded with luggage and trays of frozen food.  To reach the van, passengers had to take an elevator down one floor to the level of the runway where the conveyance to our plane, apparently on a remote runway, was waiting.

When our flight was called, about 25 passengers gathered near the two elevators under the digital sign identifying the gate on the level below.  I was traveling light (it was a short trip) with just a cloth duffle bag and a back pack.  After the announcement, I made my way to the elevators.  Both elevator doors opened at the same time, but, for some reason, all of the passengers crowded together to get into the left one.  People were pressed tightly around the right door, but, when it opened, they recoiled and didn’t enter, stepping to the side to queue for the left-hand lift.  

I was in no hurry.  Seats are assigned.  It doesn’t make any practical difference whether you are the first on the plane or the last.  But, of course, most passengers don’t seem to understand this fact and, so, they shove and push to reach the discomfort of the crowded regional jet. This has never made sense to me but I am, by nature, patient, even phlegmatic. 

The elevator door closed and the lift dropped and, then, after a minute, ascended again.  More people jostled one another, carry-on luggage bulked-up against hip and thigh.  The door slid open and, again, the passengers gasped and stepped to the side and, so, the way was clear for me to enter the elevator on the right side.  I stepped forward.  A figure was sprawled on the floor to the right of the doors under the bank of buttons.  The man was covered in rags and both of his feet and right arm were missing, raw bulbs of red flesh exposed where his extremities had been amputated.  On his chest and thighs, I could see burns, shiny and pink continents mapped on his skin. The air smelled of some sort of ointment.  I was startled and instinctively backed-up, off the elevator, and, then, the door soundlessly slid shut.

I wasn’t going to ride that elevator.  The man’s eyes were large and bright and, with the persistence of vision, I imagined them still staring at me through the elevator’s door.  

Moving to my right, to the other elevator leading to the tarmac, I took that lift down to the lower concourse.   The people standing around the gate were silent and appalled.  It was best not to speak of what we had seen.