"That's it for now, Gene," my attorney said at the door to his suite. "I'll give you a call when the papers come in and you can pick them up or we'll send them to you."
"Okay, Mr. Lewis," I replied.
He didn't bother with a handshake so I turned down the long dusty corridor and headed toward the old elevator. I was already thinking about things I wanted to do with my automotive shop under the auspices of my new company. I had just signed the final papers to be filed with the state forming the personal corporation for the business.
I had to wait nearly five minutes for the elevator to reach the 28th floor of the old building. It was slow and most of the more active tenants were on lower floors so it didn't surprise me that it was empty when I stepped in. I pushed the button for the ground floor and then leaned against the railing at the back of the car, resigned for a slow descent.
The old elevator creaked down, past 27, past 26, past 25, and then ground to a bouncing halt at 24. Not until a woman had stepped into the car did I look up to see a pretty young woman with a very serious look to her face. Our eyes met briefly but she glanced away before I could say hello. As she stepped into the opposite back corner of the car, I cast my eyes at the floor again and settled back. The doors crept closed and the car again started its descent with a bump.
I looked up at the floor indicator lights and watched 23 come on and go off. We went through 22, 21, 20 and 19 but then the car jolted to a stop, the floor lights went out, and the overhead light disappeared, although a little white emergency light came on, casting shadows everywhere.
The woman straightened upright and said in a scared voice, "What happened? Why aren't we moving?"
"I'm not sure. It looks to me as if the car lost power."
"Why?"
"I don't know. This is a very old building and an old elevator and maybe it needs repairs. It could be that the whole building has lost power. There's no way to know."
I looked over the control panel for a telephone or some way to call for help. There appeared to be a speaker in the panel but no phone. Pushing on all the buttons yielded no response until I got to the emergency button, a big red dot, which produced the sound of a distant bell ringing. However no one responded.
I checked all around the car for a way out and decided that the only escape hatch was in the ceiling and that was too tall for us to reach. I asked if she would let me boost her up to see if she could open it but she just shook her head.
I looked at the woman and realized that she was in a near panic. I said, "Look, the best thing for us to do is get comfortable. It might take a while but someone will rescue us sooner or later."
The floor was carpeted and didn't look too dirty so I settled down in my corner, leaning back against the paneling. After several minutes the woman did the same in her corner.
I awoke to a soft keening cry and realized it was coming from the woman. I reached out and touched her arm, asking, "Are you all right?"
Her response was to jerk her arm away from me and curl herself into a tighter little ball, her arms wrapped around herself in a tight hug. She again dropped her head and closed her eyes and made the same sound.
"Look. We're going to be all right if we just don't panic," I said, but it brought no response from her. I checked my watch and was surprised that I had been in the elevator for an hour and forty minutes.
I drifted back to sleep but found it was a fitful rest with the high-pitched squeal coming from her. Every so often it seemed to me like the sound grew a little bit higher in pitch. I wished there was something I could do to comfort her but she seemed to reject my attempts and there seemed to be nothing obvious that would help anyway. I dozed off again.
The next time I woke up, the woman was still in the huddled formation but leaning hard against the far wall. The sound was still constant and higher than every before.
"Ma'am, is there something I can do to help you?"
She shook her head and I thought that was the end of it but after several minutes, she said, "I should be home with my babies."
"Oh? How many do you have?"
"Two."
"Boys or girls?"
"One each."
"Ah! How old are they?"
"Fourteen months."
"Oh? Sounds like a fun age to have children. Bet you have a lot of fun with them, right?"
"Yes."
"Who's keeping them?"
"My mother."
"Then they're in good hands, right?"
"Yes." There was a long pause before she continued, "But I need to feed them."
What was so important about ... Ah! The light dawns. "Are they still nursing?"
"Yes!"
"And you are in pain, right?"
"YES!"
"Can't you ... well, you know ... empty some of the milk?"
"I don't ... don't have my pump and I've never been able to do it by hand very well."
"Oh. Well ... I see the dilemma. Is there any other way?"
She shook her head but she was groaning from the pressure inside her. She dropped her head to her chest and tried to squeeze herself but nothing seemed to help. I could only guess at the pain she was in.
The minutes ticked by slowly as I wracked my brain for any idea that would help the woman but what did I know about female breast care and hygiene? I thought about offering to try to express the milk from her myself but that seemed like a rather crude suggestion ... if she couldn't do it, why would I be successful?
And then a new thought occurred to me. I turned to her and said, "Ma'am? Could I take the place of your little ones?"
She opened her eyes and looked at me in horror. She shook her head and seemed to withdraw even more into the corner. The keening went on and on, growing ever higher in pitch. I closed my eyes tightly, trying to escape from her agony. According to my watch, midnight came and went, signifying more than seven hours in the tiny car.
I awoke with a start, feeling a tug at my arm. My eyes flew open and I suddenly realized that we were still in the elevator. I turned to the woman, surprised to see that she had removed her light jacket and blouse and bra, leaving her naked from the waist up.
It didn't take a genius to see what was causing her pain ... her breasts were swollen until they seemed as tight as a balloon. A glance at the pile of clothes she had discarded between us showed that her bra and blouse were both stained with her milk, still wet where it had leaked out of her.