To the Penthouse

"Going up." Miles stabbed the "Door Open" button with his forefinger and glanced over his shoulder. "Anyone want the fourth floor?"

No one moved. The teenager leaning against the back wall cracked her gum and rolled her eyes. Miles moved his finger to the "5" button, and the doors closed with a soft hiss.

Today, the elevator hummed faintly as it slid between floors. Never sure what this machine's going to do, Miles thought. Some days it had a mind of its own, skipping floors or just hovering at one level. At first, the elevator's peculiarities had annoyed Miles because he wanted to provide a smooth ride for his passengers. But several repairmen had been unable to find the cause for the hiccups, so Miles accepted the irregular nature of the elevator, just as he would accept the quirks of an old friend.

"Fifth floor. Anyone want the fifth floor?" This time, we had a winner. The tired-looking couple with the baby in a stroller jerked to alertness.

"Yes, we're getting off here." They gathered their belongings—a diaper bag, knapsack, purse, and multicolored umbrella.

Miles knew that they would take twice as long to exit and kept the doors open, placing his hand over the retracted metal to reinforce the button's command.

"Thank you." The parents exited the elevator, leaving a space quickly filled by the remaining occupants.

The elevator continued up, dispensing people at every floor until it hit the top, empty. Miles peered out the open door, searching the corridor for new riders. No one in sight. He pushed "Door Close" and rode the elevator all the way down in one smooth ride. Like a slide on the playground, he thought.

He settled back on his stool, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes for a minute. He'd been surprised at how tired this job made him. Who would have thought that sitting in one place and exercising one finger could be so exhausting?

When Miles had applied to be an elevator operator, he thought he'd found the perfect job to supplement his retirement. Plenty of people to talk to, no paperwork, and he could read between loads. Not like his days as a file clerk when he couldn't talk much with his fellow workers, constantly had paper cuts, and didn't feel like reading when his day ended.

At first, running the elevator had been fun. He'd chatted with everybody, holding the door open longer than his supervisor liked so that he could finish a conversation. Sometimes, he had brought stickers to hand out to the children. He'd felt energized, alive. People listened when he spoke. But some days were like today, filled with sullen teenagers, distracted adults, and noisy children. He couldn't wait until they exited his cell. At the end of some shifts, he would drag himself home to his efficiency, microwave a TV dinner, and fall asleep in his cushioned armchair, waking when the noise of a late-night cop show penetrated his dozing mind.

"Going up?" The question broke his reflections, and Miles opened his eyes.

"Yes sir. What floor do you want?" Miles sat up with the erect military posture inculcated in him as an eighteen-year-old. He almost snapped a salute at the man in front of him. Although wearing a natty pinstripe suit and carrying a slim leather envelope, his customer exuded the controlled air of a soldier. The man's close-cut black hair and trim physique confirmed Miles's impression.

The man pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and glanced at it. "Let's see … the penthouse, please." He stepped into the elevator and turned to face front. "Is this an express elevator?"

Miles gave his companion a sideways glance before venturing a smile. "No sir, but I can make an express run, if you'd like. You could say," he paused, "it's an espresso."

His attempt at humor hit a receptive target. The man laughed, a big hearty chuckle that softened his stern exterior.

"That's a good one...