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I’m at this place Nice Shoes right now, a telecine/finishing house on Park Ave, and this place took a tip out of the T. G. I. Friday’s Book of Decorating, except they have tons of shitpiles of money here so it’s super expensive junk instead of regular style junk. And two things make junk super expensive: one, it being ungodly old; and two, it having some sentimental or historical or anthropological value. I guess they have both here. In one room there’s a folded up hood of a racecar sponsored by Dewalt, alongside it a framed clipping of the article describing the crash. No one was hurt. And in another, the room I’m in now, there’s a print of that photograph of people watching a 3D movie and behind me, hanging on the wall, is one of those ole-timey bikes with an oversized front wheel and a wee-little wheel on the back. I’m told it’s authentic.
But what has me most nerve-racked, most fearing for my life, Charlie, is not interior design, no, it’s the elevator at Bug. Let me take you on a journey back to yesterday morning. My co-workers and I slowly filtering into work. A few of our most loyal and cool clients enjoy some pastry goods. Things seemed to be running smoothly, people seemed amiable, though it was still and quiet. Even the street din seemed muted. I remember it clearly, I was just opening up a project in the Avid and reading your morning letter. I paused to take a sip of coffee when I noticed what I thought was a stray grind floating in the mug. With one index finger I went to dab it out using the amazing physics of surface tension, when suddenly a large crash came ringing from somewhere near the South side of the office. My initial thought was that someone had fallen through a glass table covered in dishes. Definitely a collapse followed by pieces of things tumbling. We all crept out of our offices slowly, making eye contact with each other and moving south. The clients came out of Andre’s room (the furthest south) unharmed and equally curious, so my theory was shot. Then Sandra opened the front door to the office and revelaed the scene. Elevator door bent open, the elevator itself stopped on the two-and-halfth floor. I cowered to look inside, not wanting to discover some body exploded onto the walls from the impact. Luckily it was empty. Again no one was hurt. Also there was a few pieces of large metal rubble, though to this day (the next day) I have still not found evidence of where they broke from.
The elevator fixers came and within half an hour of arriving had it back up and running. Now I’m no civil engineer, but when an elevator holding no extra weight falls an unknown amount of floors and makes a loud crashing noise and there are sizeable pieces of structure on the floor, I assume it takes a few days to fix, or even just go for the full-on replacement because this is not an electric beard trimmer. When this fails we just don’t have to go out looking like some naïve hippie, we die or become paralyzed. Anyway, I rode it this morning with four other people and it seemed to work fine, but I don’t know, maybe I’ll just start taking the stairs. I’m too young and supple to die or become paralyzed.