Lance Simmons almost dropped his tool box as he dashed across the hotel lobby, en route for the closing elevator door. He made it just in time, sticking his arm out just before the door closed. The door then re-opened, and catching his breath, Lance stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the 43rd floor.
It only took a few seconds for Lance to realize that he was not alone in the elevator. He looked behind him and noticed a beautiful, ravishing blonde-haired woman standing against the back wall of the elevator, wearing an expensive business outfit, holding a leather tote-bag in front of her. She looked extremely young - no more than 21, if even that.
"What are you looking at?" the woman blurted out in a snotty tone, glancing meanly at the man.
"Uhh... nothing," Lance replied, turning his head the other way. What a beautiful woman, he said to himself. But if her initial voice was any indication of her personality, Lance figured, she was not the type of woman to pursue. Never before had someone sounded so conceited.
As the elevator began to ascend, something popped up in Lance's mind. That lady looked familiar to him. Wait a minute! There was a reason she looked familiar to him. In fact, he knew who she was!
"You're Tiffany Wilson!" Lance exclaimed, spinning around and looking at the woman in disbelief.
She gave an exasperated look and then shrugged her shoulders. "So?"
Lance ripped open his tool box, searching for a piece of paper and a pen. "Wow! This is incredible! Can I have your autograph? Wow! My little brother just loves you!"
The blonde took in a deep breath, then spoke in a very demeaning tone. "Look, I DON'T do autographs."
Lance stopped, looking up at her with a stunned expression. She was much different than what he had previously envisioned her as...
To anyone who owned a television, 19-year-old Tiffany Wilson was a superstar. She was the marquee name on SEASIDE LODGE, a network program which always ranked high in the weekly television ratings. People knew her as Amber Sheridan, the sexy and flirtatious maid of a little motel situated on the California coast. Before she landed this role, Tiffany had made her mark in the entertainment community as a fashion model. She had two calendars out, plus a workout video and even a commercial for a mascara company. At 19, she literally had the world at her feet.
"You don't do autographs?" the repairman asked, crestfallen. "All I ask for is one... that's all. My little brother, he has your calendar up on his wall and he watches your show every single week. He just loves you more than any other..."
"LOOK," Tiffany repeated, now in a firm tone, "I DON'T do autographs for ANYONE. I could care less about your worthless little brother."
Lance gave an expression of confusion and then turned his head quickly, so the famous star could not see his new look of disgust. What a fucking bitch, he said to himself. She could have told him about her "no autograph" rule in a much nicer and more polite way, instead of just being snotty and demeaning him and his brother at the same time.
Tiffany sighed and ran a brush through her long, perfectly-styled hair, eyeing the man from behind. She hated to be in the same elevator with someone his type. "I'm a million dollar star," she told herself. "And I have to share an elevator with some lousy repairman. This hotel should have elevators for stars. After all, lots of stars come here."
"You know," Lance said, breaking the woman's train of thought. He kept looking straight ahead, not turning to peer back at her. "You must really be a good actress."
"Thanks," she said, squinting suspiciously at him.
"Yeah," he added. "Your character on TV is so nice and sweet. You on the other hand, in real life, are nothing but a spoiled little brat. No one would really know that unless they met you for real."
"WHAT?" Tiffany screamed, full of rage and anger. "You can't talk to me like that!"
"Who says?" Lance asked, now turning around to face her.
"Me!" she exclaimed, taking a swing and hitting him in the shoulder.
Lance, who prided himself on never raising a hand to strike a woman, just stood there and shook his head at her, as she fumed before him. No one had probably ever opposed her like this before, he told himself. This bitch actress probably had people eating out of her hands on a regular basis.
Tiffany reached into her tote-bag and scrambled for her celluar phone. "I'm going to call security on you!" she screamed. "You can't talk to me that way! I'm Tiffany Wilson, damnit!"
"Look," Lance said, "let's just forget it, okay?"
"Wouldn't you like to do that!" she huffed.
"Yeah, I would," he told her, matter of factly. "Plus, if you call security on me, I'll get them on you too. You're the one who hit me. I did nothing but call you a spoiled little brat."
Tiffany stopped and looked up at him, frozen. She could not afford any bad press in the tabloid media. Those nasty reporters would carve her up if they learned that she was even accused of punching someone. Her career may take a massive hit, then she may be finished!
So, Tiffany closed her tote-bag and looked at the repairman with a confident, sure expression. "Okay, you got yourself a deal. Just don't bother me anymore. What floor are we up to, anyway?"
Lance glared at her then looked at the control panel. "22." He turned around so he wasn't facing her anymore. He then noticed that she was apparently headed to the 51st floor, 8 higher than him. The button for the 51st floor was lit up, as was the 43rd floor button.
Lance, a handyman whose employer had a contract with this hotel, had been sent here to fix the air conditioner in one of the rooms. He was 31 years old and had been in the repair business since graduating from college. Just an average joe, Lance wore faded blue jeans and an old t-shirt. A full tool belt was around his waist, and he carried a tool box in his right hand as well.
Lance tapped his foot on the elevator floor as the compartment went higher and higher in the building, wanting to get away from this crass, snobby actress. He wondered to himself whether or not he should tell his brother of this experience. It would dampen his brother's image of Tiffany, whom he thought of as the perfect "dream girl". Lance then wondered to himself, would his brother believe that his "dream girl" could be such a bitch? After all, the media gushed over her. All Lance had heard was that this actress could be worthy of sainthood. He was always hearing stories of her helping children and donating to many charities. He also heard stories of how she never turned down an autograph request. "I like to interact with my fans," he heard her once say in a national interview. Yeah, right!
Meanwhile, Tiffany applied more mascara to her already perfect face. She was on her way to a very important meeting with a movie producer, with the possibility of landing a starring role on a high-budget film. That is why she was dressed so professionally, wearing a red business jacket and a knee-length red skirt, to go along with dark stockings and black high-heels. She wore a ton of jewellery and smelled of only the finest, most expensive perfumes and fragrances.
"Come on," Tiffany said, impatient, watching the elevator console flash the current floor. 34. A few seconds later, 35. Then 36.
All of a sudden, the lights in the elevator went out and it came to a rocky, screeching halt. Seconds later, both Lance and Tiffany were stunned as a dimmer light suddenly filled the compartment.
Tiffany looked around, trying to figure out what had just happened. Then it was time for her to explode. "WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED!?"
