Every time I’ve slowly pushed myself through the revolving doors of Jenkins and Smith Law Firm’s ominous glass entrance, I have an overpowering desire to push the door as hard as I can and whip around at top speed, with a minimum of three complete revolutions. Maybe today I’ll exit with this flourish. I smile as I imagine the dumbfounded expression of attractive brunette sitting at the front lobby desk.

I shuffle sideways to let a young Latina mother and her baby take their turn at the glass whirlwind. From the periphery of my vision I catch a glimpse of her anxious eyes. I want to call out to her, muster something out of my broken Spanish, a word of comfort to erase the scrawl of fear written on her face, and loosen the death grip off her baby’s torso. Instead, I slouch my head down even further and glare at my brown loafers. From this vantage point I watch her tennis shoes retreat into the building.  The heels are worn with balding spots imprinted on the cheap white leather; a sock is bound to poke through any day.  

God, I am so idealistic. I can’t even bring myself to address her and I’m supposed to change the world. Well, change starts now. I shove myself off after her and prepare to enter the glass twister, hopefully for the last time. I slowly move my hand towards the glass, still watching the blurry image of the woman and her baby dwindling into a distorted smudge before me.

Abruptly tossed out of my reverie, navy pinstripes staple me to the glass entrance. My briefcase is jammed between the side of the doorway and my belt buckle, digging into my stomach and crushing my hand. I mutter an obscenity but it is lost in whoosh of stale air and defiant click of high heels. The glass doors whisk perfectly layered hair and long legs bound in the lethal pinstripes through the entryway. Disheveled, I pry myself away from the wall and watch the retreating back of Christine, the most ambitious status climber I have ever had the pleasure not to meet.

-----

I didn’t come into this world to make friends, and I don’t intend to start now. In all honesty today I’ll probably make enemies; people don’t like being told they need to step down and make room for fresh perspectives. Better perspectives. My perspective. I press the up-button firmly and decisively then straighten the front of my blazer. The “two piece power suit” my boyfriend likes to groan when I slip my not-so-long ago naked body into the security of navy pinstripes. Not that I need security. I could pitch my piece naked and convince them to bite.

God, everything is so slow today. In frustration, I glance up at the blinking light tracking the progress of the elevators descent. Still at 7, damn. Even that average lawyer Mathew, Michael maybe, was dawdling in front of the doors today. He was just glaring at the glass, like he was trying to discover something in his own blasé reflection. That is a man bound by mediocrity.

Shifting my weight in my Nine West Mazi Pumps, I look to my right at the bedraggled presence of an immigrant and her baby. She looks utterly out of place stooped over next to me, scuffing at the marks left by dirty white tennis shoes. She coos into the baby’s face and fusses with a dirty swab of cloth which must act as the kid’s blanket. I shudder but don’t let the ripple move past the limits of my body; the pinstripes don’t move an inch. I won’t ever do immigration, too classless, too easy, too trivial.

-----

Me llamo Coriama Sanchéz, no. My…name…es…is, Coriama Sanchéz. This is mi hijo…my son Cristian. We need su ayuda…¡malo!. We need your he…hel…¡coño, la palabra! ¿Que es la palabra?...Help! Ok, I can do this, we can do this. Cristian and I, we have come too far to give up now. I will just have to stay calm, talk clearly, try my best. For him, he needs it. He needs a home, we need a home. A new home, Guatemala isn’t safe for us. That will be the key, how we will get this man to help us. We were being abused. Fleeing was our only chance, ¡fue nessario!  

Hello, mi nombre… ¡Ay dios mio!...my name es Coriama Sanchéz. Better. Cristian is fussing. His soft baby hands, far less pudgy than they should be, grasp anxiously at my braid. I need to relax or he’ll start to cry. I grimace at the thought of his loud wails echoing through this empty glass corridor. People would stare, glare at us. Past the woman in the suit I see the same man who let me in ahead of him. He seems to have a kind face, maybe a little worn and tired as if he has been at work with something he doesn’t enjoy. Maybe, if I was closer to him I could ask him for ayuda, no…help with my sentences. But moving next to him, it would cause a scene and that woman I can feel her judging me with her eyes.

I see myself split in half as the doors in front of me open. Split like my family, split like my heart. We are going up…piso siete.

-----

I hate elevators. There’s this awkward social protocol that insinuates small talk especially in this firm. Most everyone knows of everybody but not in the sense that they would be willing to sustain anything more than a petty conversation. Like me and Christine, I know who she is because she’s a fast rising big shot. She probably knows I’m a lawyer but can’t quite put my name with my face. Not that I care all too much; I just don’t enjoy awkward meaningless elevator chats. But, right now Christine seems too focused to talk to me, and I’m pretty sure the other woman’s English is not as such that she’ll be starting up the conversation. So, for this final ascent I’m safe. I lean myself back into the corner and rest my elbows on the clammy handrails. 11 is a long way up.

-----

I hate elevators. I am a victim of claustrophobia, my weakness that rears its flawed head everyday. Emotions tear through me. My chest is seized by iron claws that I cannot pry loose. I lose control of the situation. On a good day I can contain myself to a slight cold sweat, on a bad day I lunge for the first floor button and the gratifying escape of the stairs. I hate that people might catch a glimpse of my desperation, see my vulnerability as straining muscles cause my ankles to wobble. But, fear is conquered by facing it, and 9 flights in heels would probably have the same effect on my ankles.

-----

Me odian los ascensores. We aren’t used to their rough up and down motion. It jerks you from your stomach up and leaves an empty nausea in its place. Also here in this country people want you to talk to them. They move their lips too quickly and I am left muttering my dull muddled phrases. Or worse, when they start with a false hope, ¡hola! My spirits lift and my eyes meet theirs as I mimic their response. Always, my intonation of hope is thrown the heaving floor and I’m left to listen to a harsh American accent which rings with pity throughout my bewildered brain. It’s más o menos hopeless.

 

*CRRRRRRRRRAAAAAZZZZZZZZZCHHHHHHHHH*

 

¡OH dios…la luz, necesitamos luz!

-----

Huffs of desperation cut through the dark, quickly followed by panicked screaming. Christine’s sharp terror-filled shrieks rebound off the elevators mirrored siding. Quickly her cries are joined by the wailing of the baby creating a symphony of fear. Mitch’s steady voice raises itself above the noise, “Christine, you need to stop screaming. You’re upsetting the baby. You need to get control of yourself.” His tone carries a warming undercurrent.  

*SLAP*

            A hand thuds against a foundation covered check, followed by the whistling sound of a deep and breathy inhale. A stark silence reverberates around the stalled metal box, while the piercing cries from baby echo in the stifling darkness.

“God damn it. Make it shut-up. I can’t deal with its shrieks.”

“Look, it’s a baby he can’t help it. Calm down. I’m sorry I hit you. We’re just stopped. You just need to stay calm. Let’s try to locate the emergency phone. Can you move forward towards the door and reach your hand down below the buttons?”

            “No…I’m in heels. I can’t risk spraining an ankle in the dark.” For some reason her excuse sounds unreliable as if she doesn’t quite believe it herself.

            “Shhh. Shhh. Mi niño, cálmate. Shhh. Shhh. Tranquilo, mi amor.”

            “Christine, I know you think you are above all of us but I really need you to cooperate right now, I don’t want to shuffle around too much given the baby and its being dark. You’re the closest.”

            Another whistling breath slices the air mingling with the baby’s cries.

            “No, I’m not moving. This company makes billions a month, do you honestly think they will leave one of their elevators stranded mid shaft?” Her scoff doesn’t contain the condescending tone she would like; there is a quaver in the last syllable.

            “Jesus, self-centered…” Mitch utters in a barely audible mutter. “Ah-hem, uh Señora. Puedes, uh….find…el telefono de emergencias…near…el puerto?”

            “¿Un teléfono? ¿Aquí?...ay bebe, tranquilo tranquilo, por favor.”

            “Uh, yeah…si…over there”

His gesture can almost be felt through the oppressive air. The mother begins to shift her baby and slide her sneakers along the carpeted bottom towards the front of the elevator.

            “I don’t know why you’re bothering it’s going to start again in a few seconds.”

            “Not if we don’t call and report the situation! Honestly, for someone so interested in scaling the firm’s twisted hierarchy, you don’t think with your head.”

            A short inhale of breath causes him to rethink the harshness of his words for a moment.

            “Well, Mathew…Michael”

            “Mitch, my name is Mitch”

            “Ah, señor creo que he encontrado el teléfono.”

            Christine ignores the woman’s interruption and contuse with her argument. If she can stay on topic perhaps it will keep her fear at bay. “It doesn’t matter; the point is that in several minutes I’m going to be delivering a proposal that will increase this firm’s revenues by several hundred thousand dollars in the next months. I say several minutes because we will be continuing our ascent in a few seconds.”

 Mitch snorts and directs his attention towards the squeak of sneakers near the doors of the elevator; “oh! The telephone, you found it? Ok great…bueno…puedes tocar el button?”

            “¿Que? O, el botón. Si puedo, pero mi niño…ah…my baby?”

            “Christine, take her baby.”

            “No, I’m not touching it.”

            “Take the baby; you are right next to her, do it now. You’ll hold him for less than a minute. Be reasonable woman! I know you could care less about me, I could too. I’m on my way to quit. I’m getting out with what’s left of my soul while I can. Not that that means anything to you. But, believe me I want this to start up again as much as you. So just take the baby from her!”

            A veritable shudder resounds against the metal of the elevator followed by a gasp-like sigh. Something light slides to the floor and a soft whimper crescendoes into a cry as a small weight is transferred through the dark. The mother turns back to face the door, leaving her child in the hands of a cold and hostile stranger. As the click of the receiver cuts the silence, electricity surges into the tense atmosphere illuminating the scene.

            Christine is crouched in a corner, her ankles shaking from squatting on the sharp heels of her pumps. Sweat splotches drench her pinstripe blazer and her pasty face is framed by blonde hair which looks as if she’s been frantically snatching it into fistfuls. She clutches a dark faced baby boy clothed in a grubby t-shirt that could have fit a child three times his age. His brown legs, dangle from the uncomfortable angle of her arms. His face is tear-streaked and frightened as his eyes rove in panicky circles for his mother. She cowers in the opposite corner, hunched in the intersection of the two panels, closed-mouthed. Her eyes dart between glancing to her decrepit sneakers and staring across the elevator towards Mitch. Her gaze contains an imploring look of desperation, asking for an explanation from the person who can almost understand her. He stands slightly off the back wall of the elevator, feet firmly planted in his loafers, calm and composed. The elevator continues its ascent.