Elevator Music:
A Romantic Holiday Story
By Rusty Fischer, author of A Town Called Snowflake
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Elevator Music
Rusty Fischer
Copyright 2013 by Rusty Fischer
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This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Cover credit: © Syda Productions – Fotolia.com
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Author’s Note:
The following is a FREE short story edited by the author himself. If you see any glaring mistakes, I apologize and hope you don’t take it out on my poor characters, who had nothing to do with their author’s bad grammar!
Happy reading… and happy holidays!
Enjoy!
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Elevator Music:
A Romantic Holiday Story
I’m humming the elevator song when the car stops on floor # 28. I bite my lip and tap my foot softly instead. It’s a Christmas song, something instrumental and a little jazzy, but for the life of me I can’t quite figure out what it is.
I guess they haven’t switched it over to after-holiday mode yet, which is good for me. I always feel like New Year’s Eve is kind of like a Christmas do-over anyway, even if I have spent the entire afternoon writing about Valentine’s Day. (Long story.)
The doors slide open and it takes a minute for him to focus and step on board. He’s got his head down, texting somebody, and I check him out without being overly obvious about it.
Nice suit, gray slacks on the shiny side, stiff white shirt, black blazer, skinny black tie. It looks good on his trim frame, his black hair cropped close to his scalp, a skull and crossbones messenger bag slung casually over one shoulder.
The doors are open, he’s just standing there and I’m about to clear my throat and get his attention when he looks up, sees me and… smiles. Brown eyes meet mine, soft lashes blinking as a blush rises to his lean face.
“Sorry,” he says, stepping in just as the doors close behind him.
“It happens,” I say, trying not to stare.
It’s a big elevator in a big building and there’s plenty of room and he kind of goes to the opposite side, leaning against the wall like he’s had a rough day.
I have two choices in this scenario: I can whip out my phone and pretend to be texting somebody and ride down to the lobby in silence, or I can make conversation now and chat with a cute guy for the next 28 floors.
Normally, I’d already be fake texting some non-existent BFF or boyfriend, but it’s New Year’s Eve and this is pretty much the last human contact I’ll have until next year, so, yeah… why not?
“Rough day?” I ask, nodding toward his defeated posture.
He looks up, fingers on his phone, smiles again and… slips the phone in his pocket.
Yes!
He smiles at me and softly says, “Rough year.”
Ouch, I wasn’t really expecting to get that deep, that fast. I mean, we’re already moving and only have about 24 floors to go! “Well,” I say brightly, “you get a new one here in about…” I look at my watch for effect “… four more hours.”
He chuckles, nodding. “Good point.” He effortlessly slides from his right shoulder to his back against the elevator wall, facing me as we begin to pick up speed on our way down to the lobby. “Working on a holiday?” he asks, noting my cinched waist maroon pleather blazer and black work slacks.
“Literally,” I say, leaning on my back against the opposite wall. “I work up on 32, in the greeting cards division? We’ve been brainstorming Valentine’s Day cards all afternoon.”
“Nice,” he says, kind of genuinely. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to—”
The elevator hitches in mid-flight and he stumbles, slightly, going to one knee. My hands have been on the rail at my back the whole time, so I only kind of buck a little, like a cowboy on a bronco.
And now I feel kind of bad, like maybe I should have warned him.
The car stops, dead, between the 17th and 18th floors. “Hmmm,” I murmur, watching him get back to his feet, face a shade paler than it was two seconds earlier. “Usually it doesn’t get stuck until at least the 12th floor.”
“This happens a lot?” he asks, dusting off the sides of his slacks even though he never actually fell.
I smirk. “You must be new here.”
He stands a little uncertainly and says, “Well, that was the plan anyway.”
Almost at the same time, I notice the “Visitor” nametag half-under his black lapel. Before he reaches down and yanks it off, I read “Barry.” He crumples it up and, looking for a trash can – in an elevator?!? – slides open his messenger bag and plops it in.
I spot the familiar red and green bag from my favorite corner café, Snowflakes & Scones. Then the flap comes down and he looks back at me, struggling to smile. “I just came from an interview.”
“In Graphic Design?” I ask.
We’re in the old Hanover Building downtown and the top, oh, 15 floors or so are taken up by Holiday Media, the company I work for – and “Barry” must want to work for.
Surprise, surprise, Holiday Media specializes in all holiday, all the time websites, podcasts, greeting cards, websites, blogs, posters, stationary, that kind of thing.
His face lights up a little. “Yeah, how’d you…?” Then he realizes I work here, and nods.
“They asked you to come and interview on New Year’s Eve?” I slump back against the wall because, this old elevator, it could be awhile.
He does the same. “I guess the department head is going to be gone all next week and they’re trying to fill the slot fast, so…”
His voice trails off, then he snorts, shaking his head. “You don’t need to know all that. I’m trying to get better at self-editing. My ex was always on me about that.”
My ears perk up a little at the “ex” part, even though… seriously? I’m going to start fantasizing about Elevator Boy – sorry, Barry – on New Year’s Eve? When, if the law of averages prevails and this elevator kicks in as usual, we’ll have about all of fifteen minutes together?
“I’m actually a pretty good editor,” I say, kicking the faux alligator pleather valise at my feet for effect. “So if you start to bore me, I’ll stop you.”
He chuckles, dryly, and kind of nods at the elevator switchboard where the numbers 17 and 18 flicker as we hover just between them. “Is this… normal? I mean, should we call anyone?”
“In a minute,” I say, wagging a finger and leaving it up in kind of “hush” pose. In the new silence, we can hear the elevator music overhead. The song is still playing, the jazzy Christmas one from before he got in and I arch an eyebrow, pointing above us. “Can you tell me what that is first?”
He smirks. “Jingle Bells, of course. It’s just jazzy so it’s a little harder to recognize...”
I shake my head automatically but, listening closer, hear the familiar refrains buried in a long, winding sax solo. I nod, murmuring, “You’re good” while reaching for the Emergency phone on my side of the car. It’s old and red, with a curly chord that stretches as I twirl it around one finger. The doorman answers on the first ring.
“Phil?” I ask.
He chuckles, “Yeah. Darby?”
“How’d you guess?”
“Who else would be here after hours on New Year’s Eve?”
I frown, marveling that the doorman at my office knows me better than pretty much any other guy, pretty much any other human, in all of Snowflake, South Carolina.
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“Uh,” I ignore his familiarity and remember the whole reason I called, “The elevator’s stuck again.”
“Good gravy,” he mutters, tone instantly changing from familiar and fun to red alert rent-a-cop mode. “I’m on it, Darby, sorry about that. I’m sure you’ve got plans for tonight, so we’ll have that fixed for you jiffy quick…”
“Hopefully before next year, right Phil?”
He chuckles, a little wheezy, before hanging up without a goodbye.
I hang up the phone and look back to Barry, who’s smiling. “Sounds like quite the office place romance,” he teases.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I say, playing along. “I wouldn’t want to lose my dream job of writing sappy four line poems for Valentine’s Day cards on New Year’s Eve.”
“You mean saving guys like me the chore of having to write sappy four line poems of our own every Valentine’s Day isn’t exactly your dream job?”
“That’s just it,” I pounce. “I spend months, months, I tell you, perfecting these little ditties and then you guys come in at midnight on Valentine’s Day Eve and pick the prettiest, cheapest card you can find. It’s all for nothing.”
“It’s not all for nothing,” he says emphatically. “I send my Gram a card every Christmas and she calls me on the phone, crying, the minute she opens it.”
I frown. “Well, that’s something.” Then I look at him more closely, the soft lips, the warm eyes, the skinny tie. “Besides, I wasn’t talking about you…”
He arches one dark eyebrow. “No?”
“No, I mean… you don’t strike me as the type who runs into the convenience store last minute and picks any old card.”
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