The doors opens and a sight from the 30’s greets me.

An elderly man in a forty buttoned coat. He salutes me with a white glove knocking against his pillbox hat. “What floor sir?”

“Uh, fifth I believe.”

“Going to an interview?”

“Yeah, just moved to town.”

“You’ll love it here. Them good folks on the fifth floor.”

The elevator stops and the man presses himself against the wall. He becomes part of the wall it seems, a living, breathing apparatus. A talking time machine. Maybe I will like it here.

I smile as I head toward the reception desk.

---

“Frankie, break time!”

The Elevator Man looks sharply at the intercom and then casts a fearful gaze at the camera. He pulls the lever to stop the car. He paces back and forth. He gnaws a nail through his gloves.

The air becomes thin, he hyperventilates. Then just as fast he turns to rage.

The doors open. He sticks his head out. He throws himself back into the car and shrinks into the corner.

From underneath, an ocean of urine.